CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines

[Transcriber's note: Characters with macrons have been indicated in

this file by preceding them with an equals sign and surrounding them

with square brackets, e.g. "[=e]".]

[Frontispiece: PETER, HASTILY INSTRUCTING THE GIRL TO HOLD TWO

RICKSHAWS, LEAPED AT HIS PURSUER WITH DOUBLED FISTS]

PETER THE BRAZEN

A MYSTERY STORY OF MODERN CHINA

BY

GEORGE F. WORTS

"A man whose heart is burning with passion

follows the undulations of a thought."

--Su-Tong-Po.

_WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY_

GAYLE HOSKINS

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

1919

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1919, J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

TO

DR. AND MRS. W. B. A. MOORE

HONG KONG

CONTENTS

PART I

THE CITY OF STOLEN LIVES

PART II

THE BITTER FOUNTAIN

PART III

THE GREEN DEATH

PETER THE BRAZEN

PART I

THE CITY OF STOLEN LIVES

CHAPTER I

"How serene the joy,

when things that are made for each other meet

and are joined;

but ah,--

how rarely they meet and are joined, the things

that are made for each other!"

--SAO-NAN.

When Peter Moore entered the static-room, picked his way swiftly and

unnoticingly across the littered floor, and jerked open the frosted

glass door of the chief operator's office, the assembled operators

followed him with glances of admiration and concern. No one ever

entered the Chief's office in that fashion. One waited until called

upon.

But Moore was privileged. Having "pounded brass" for five useful and

adventurous years on the worst and best of the ships which minimize the

length and breadth of the Pacific Ocean, he was favored; he had become

a person of importance. He had performed magical feats with a wireless

machine; he had had experiences.

His first assignment was a fishing schooner, a dirty, unseaworthy

little tub, which ran as far north sometimes as the Aleutians; and he

had immediately gained official recognition by sticking to his

instruments for sixty-eight hours--recorded at fifteen-minute intervals

in his log--when the whaler _Goblin_ encountered a submerged pinnacle

rock in the Island Passage and flashed the old C.Q.D. distress signal.

It was brought out in the investigation that the distance at which

Peter Moore had picked up the signals of the sinking _Goblin_ exceeded

the normal working range of either apparatus. When pressed, the young

man confessed the ownership of a pair of abnormally keen ears.

Afterward, it was demonstrated for the benefit of doubters that Moore

could "read" signals in the receivers when the ordinary operator could

detect only a far away scratching sound.

Beginning his second year in the Marconi uniform, Peter Moore was

recognized as material far too valuable to waste on the fishing boats;

and he was stationed on the _Sierra_, which was then known in wireless

circles as a supervising ship. Her powerful apparatus could project

out a long electric arm over any part of the eastern Pacific, and the

duty of her operator was to reprimand sluggards who neglected answering

calls from ship or shore stations, and inexperienced men who violated

the strict rules governing radio intercourse.

It was whispered that Peter Moore grew tired of the nagging to which

his position on the supervisor ship gave him privilege, for he shortly

made application for a berth in the China run. Now every operator on

the Pacific cherishes the hope that his fidelity will some day be

rewarded by a China run, and there are applications always on file for

those romantic berths. The Chief granted Peter Moore his whim

unhesitatingly; and Moore selected the _Vandalia_, perhaps the most

desirable of the transpacific fleet, because she stayed away from San

Francisco the longest.

That the supersensitiveness of his ears was not waning was soon proved

by his receipt of a non-relayed message, afterward verified, from the

shore station in Seattle, when the _Vandalia_ lay at anchor in the

harbor at Hong-Kong. That was a new record. Marconi himself is

believed to have written the young magician a complimentary letter.

But Peter Moore showed that letter to no one. That was his nature. He

was something of a mystery even to the members of his own profession.

Many of the younger operators knew him only as a symbol, a genius

behind a key, or as a hand. Professionally speaking, it was his hand

that made his personality unique and enviable. There was a queer

vitality in the signals sent into the air from a wireless machine when

his strong white fingers played upon the key; his touch was as familiar

to them as the voice of a friend.

There was a general simmering down of coastwise gossip in the

static-room when the frosted glass door of the Chief's office closed

behind him. Voices trailed off into curious whisperings. Then--

"But great guns, man, I need you!" boomed the cranky voice of the Chief.

Followed then the low hum of Peter Moore as he explained himself.

"Makes no difference!" the Chief roared. "Can't get along without you.

Short handed. Gotta stay!"

In irritation the Chief always abbreviated his remarks quite as if they

were radiograms to be transmitted at dollar-a-word rates.

The truth then dawned and burst upon those ardent listeners in the

static-room. Peter Moore was resigning! It was incredible.

A more daring head pressed its audacious ear against the snowy glass.

This was a fat, excitable little man, long in the service, but destined

forever, it seemed, to hammer brass in the Panama intermediate run. A

skillful operator, but his arm broke, as wireless men say, whenever

faced by emergency. He distinctly heard Peter Moore state in a voice

of emotion: "Too much China. God, man, I'll be smuggling opium next!"

"Rubbish!" the Chief snorted.

The Panama Line man waved a pale hand behind him for absolute silence.

"Want a shore station for a while?"

"Intend to rest up and then look around," Moore answered.

"You'll be back. Mark my word. The sea and the wireless house is a

winning combination. The old cities--new faces--freedom----"

"I'm tired."

"Pah! You've only begun. When does the _Vandalia_ clear for China?"

"Thursday night."

"I'll hold your berth open till Thursday noon. Hoping you'd break in a

new operator. Queer chap. Glass eye. 'Member--Thursday noon."

The frosted door went inward abruptly. The intense blue eyes in the

pale face of the man who had resigned closed half way upon encountering

the blushing eavesdropper. The Panama Line operator moved uncertainly

toward a vacant chair. Unaware of the curious stares addressed at him

Moore went to the outer door. A wave of exquisite nervousness rippled

through the silence of the static-room as the door clicked.

When the rumor reached the _Vandalia_, lying in state at her pier, that

Peter Moore had resigned, Captain Jones, after bluntly airing his

disappointment, advanced the theory to his chief engineer that Sparks

had "taken the East too much to heart. The fangs are in too deep."

"He will be on hand sailing time," added the chief engineer, who had

been trying to retire from active duty in the China run for eleven

years.

But Moore did not come back to the _Vandalia_ for that reason at all.

CHAPTER II

Communication between certain individuals in China and their relatives

and friends in Chinatown must, for political and other reasons, be

conducted in a secret way. In Shanghai, Moore had made the

acquaintance, under somewhat mysterious auspices, of Ching Gow Ong, an

important figure in the silk traffic.

Moore, so it was said by those who were in a position to know, had once

performed a favor for Ching Gow Ong, of which no one seemed to know the

particulars. What was of equal importance, perhaps, was that Ching Gow

Ong would have willingly given Moore any gift within his power had

Moore been so inclined.

But it appears that Moore was not a seeker after wealth, thereby giving

some real basis to the common belief that he possessed that rare

thing--a virginal spirit of adventure. He cemented this queer

friendship by conveying messages, indited in Chinese script, which he

did not read, between Ching Gow Ong and his brother, Lo Ong, officially

dead, who conducted a vile-smelling haunt in the bowels of Chinatown.

Peter Moore made his way through the narrowing alleys, proceeded

through a maze of blank walls, down a damp stone stairway, and rapped

upon a black iron door. It opened instantly, and a long clawlike hand

reached forth, accepted the yellow envelope from the operator's hand,

and slowly, silently withdrew, the door closing as quickly and as

quietly as it had opened.

No words were spoken. His errand done, Peter Moore retraced his steps

to the wider and brighter lanes which comprised the Chinatown known to

tourists.

He walked slowly, with his head inclined a little to one side, which

was a habit he had acquired from the eternal listening into the hard

rubber receivers. He had proceeded in this fashion a number of steps

up one of the narrow, sloping sidewalks when he felt, rather than

perceived, a pair of eyes fastened upon him from a second-story window.

They were the eyes of a young Chinese woman, but he sensed immediately

that she was not of the river type. Her fine black hair was arranged

in a gorgeous coiffure. Gold ornaments drooped from her ears, and her

complexion was liberally sanded with rice powder. Her painted lips

wore an expression of malignity.

In the obliquity of the eyes lurked a solemn warning. Then he became

aware that she seemed to be struggling, as if she were impeding the

movements of some one behind her.

It is safe to say that in his tramps through the winding alleys of

Canton, of Peking, of Shanghai, Peter Moore had encountered many

Chinese women of her type. There was a sharp vividness to her features

which meant the inbreeding of high caste. She was unusual--startling!

She looked into the street furtively, held up a heavily jeweled

hand--an imperial order for him to stop--and withdrew. He lounged into

the doorway of an ivory shop and waited.

It was quiet in Chinatown, for the time was noon and the section was

pursuing its midday habit of calm. The padding figures were becoming a

trifle obscure, owing to a cold, pale fog that was drifting up from the

bay. In a moment the woman reappeared, examined the street again with

hostile eyes, held up a square of rice paper, and slowly folded it.

Peter Moore nodded slightly and smiled. It was a habit with him--that

smile. The sensitiveness of his nervous system found a quick outlet,

when he was nervous or excited, by a disingenuous smile. He proceeded

to the shop directly underneath her window, observing it to be Ah Sih

King's gold shop. The window was rich in glittering splendors from the

Orient. He picked up from the sidewalk a crumpled ball of red paper

and stowed it away in his coat pocket.

To an alert observer the indifference with which Moore turned and

pretended to study the gold ornaments in Ah Sih King's window might

have seemed a trifle too obvious, and the smile on his lips, one might

go on to say, was uncalled for.

As he waited, a soft thud sounded at his feet, coincident with a flash

of black and white across his shoulder. He covered the object with one

foot, as the oily, leering face of Ah Sih King appeared in the doorway.

The blanched face surmounted a costly mandarin robe, righteously worn,

a gorgeous blue raiment with traceries of fine gold and exquisite gems.

At this moment he seemed to exhale an air of faint suspicion.

"Gentleman!" accosted the thin, curled lips in a tone that was

well-nigh personal.

"Buy nothing," Peter Moore said curtly.

"You see my--my see you," observed Ah Sih King, reverting, as he deemed

fitting, to pidgin.

The wireless operator turned his back impolitely; Ah Sih King did

likewise. When he turned again, sharply, the oily smile was gone, a

look of concern having crept into his sly, old face, and the slightly

bent shoulders of the much slier young man were several strides distant.

A faint hiss, as of warning, issued from the carmine lips of the

Chinese woman. Then the window closed noiselessly, and Chinatown,

having paid not the slightest heed to the incident, pattered about its

multifarious businesses, none the wiser.

There was an indefinable something in this incident which caused

creases to appear across Moore's brow. Why had two notes been thrown?

The puzzle sifted down to this possibility: Some one behind the Chinese

woman had thrown a ball of red paper, a note, into the street.

Then she had beckoned him to wait, had written a second note, perhaps

to warn him away. He glanced furtively at the second note, saw that it

was written in Chinese, and thereupon decided in return for many favors

to call upon Lo Ong for a translation.

Chinatown now was slowly vanishing from view, swallowed by the gray

blanket of fog which rolled in from the Pacific through the mouth of

the harbor. Retracing his steps through the mist, Moore descended the

narrow stone stairway and tapped on the oblong of iron with his heavy

seal ring. A shutter clinked, uneasy eyes scrutinized him, and he

heard the bolt slide back. He opened the door and entered, restoring

the bolt to its place.

The room was low, deep and dark under the flickering light of a single

dong, which hung from the ceiling at the end of a roped-up cluster of

fine brass chains. The rich, stupefying odor of opium tainted the

heavy air. The orange flame, motionless as if it were carved from

solid metal, showed the room to be bare except for a few grass mats

scattered about in the irregular round shadow under it.

To one of these mats Lo Ong, gaunt, curious, even hostile, retreated,

squatting with his delicately thin hands folded over his abdomen. A

look of recognition disturbed only for the instant the placidity of the

ochre features.

"No come buy?" he intoned, as if Peter Moore had never passed under

that piercing gaze before.

"My never come buy," said the wireless man curtly. "Wanchee you come

help; savvy?"

"Mebbe can do," asserted Lo Ong, in the voice and manner of one

incessantly pursued by favor-seekers. Lo Ong's draped arm, as if it

were detached from his body and governed by some extraneous mechanism,

indicated a mat. Moore slipped down in the familiar cross-legged

attitude, lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke at the belly on the

dong.

"You Wanchee cumshaw?" demanded the Chinese, uneasily.

Peter Moore disdained to reply, extracted the two lumps of paper, slid

one under his knee and unfolded the other, while Lo Ong looked

unfavorably beyond him at the door. Three rows of Chinese markings

were scrawled down it. Lo Ong's body commenced to sway back and forth

in impatient rhythm.

"Lo Ong," stated Moore, "my wanchee you keep mouth shut--allatime

shut--you savvy?"

"Can do," murmured Lo Ong indifferently. He reached for the rice

paper, lifting it tenderly in long, clawing fingers, and held it to the

flame. He seemed not to believe what he read, for he twisted the paper

over, looked at it upside down, then sat down again, his lean fingers

convulsing.

"No can do," he muttered, replacing the paper on his visitor's knee.

"Mino savvy."

The white forefinger of the wireless operator pointed unwaveringly at

the flattened nose. "Read that," he ordered.

Lo Ong glanced the other way, as if the subject had ceased to interest

him, and tapped the floor with his knuckles.

"Wanchee money--cumshaw?"

"Lo Ong," declared Moore, losing his patience, "you b'long dead. Now

savvy?"

"Mebbe can do," said Lo Ong faintly.

Moore ran his fingers down the first row of fresh markings.

"O-o-ey," commented Lo Ong, shifting uneasily, "'My see you allatime,

long ago on ship.' Savvy?"

"What's next?"

"'You no see my. My see you allatime.'"

The long, sloping shoulders seemed to jerk. "Keep away. Savvy?"

"It says that?"

"Take look see," invited Lo Ong, poking his claw nervously down the

column. "'Keep away. Keep away.' One--two times. Savvy?"

Peter Moore nodded thoughtfully.

The Chinese, officially dead, replaced the sheet gingerly on his knees,

as if it were an instrument of wickedness. His bony fingers twitched a

moment.

"High lady," he added nervously; "velly high lady. You stay away.

Huh?"

"Wait a minute." Peter extracted the other paper ball, unfolding it

near the orange flame. The inner surface was red, the earthly red of

porphyry, and cracked and scarred by the crumpling. Nearly obliterated

by the lacework of wrinkles and scratches was a scrawl, evidently

scarred into the glazed surface by a knife-point. The upper part was

unintelligible. On the lower surface he made out with difficulty the

single word, _Vandalia_. He carried it to the door, slid back the

shutter and let the dim, gray light filter upon it. The other words

were too mutilated to be read.

"Hi!"

He returned to Lo Ong's jacketed side. The bony finger was circling

excitedly about a smear of black in the lower corner of the rice paper.

"What's this?"

"Len Yang. _Len Yang_! Savvy?"

"O-ho! And who is Len Yang?"

Lo Ong shook his head in agitation. "Len Yang--city. Savvy?

Shanghai--Len Yang--fort' day."

"Fourteen days from Shanghai to Len Yang?"

"No. No! _No_! Fort'."

"Forty?"

"O-o-ey." The flattened nose bobbed up and down. "Keep away--ai?"

"Maskee," Peter replied, meaning, broadly speaking, none of your

business.

Lo Ong unbolted the door, to hint that the interview was concluded.

"You keep away--ai?" he repeated anxiously. Moore grinned in his

peculiarly disingenuous way, swung open the black door, and a long,

gray arm of the fog groped its way past Lo Ong's countenance.

CHAPTER III

The junior operator toyed with the heavy transmitting key while Peter

Moore, who knew the behavior of his apparatus as he would know the

caprices of an old friend, adjusted helix-plugs, started the

motor-generator, and satisfied the steel-eyed radio inspector that his

wave decrement was exactly what it ought to be.

Then the inspector grunted suspiciously and wanted to know if the

auxiliary batteries were properly charged. With a faint smile, Moore

hooked up the auxiliary apparatus, tapped the key, and a crinkly blue

spark snapped between the brass points above the fat rubber coil.

"I reckon she'll do," observed the inspector. "Aerial don't leak, does

it?"

"No," said Peter.

The government man took a final look at the glittering instruments, and

departed. Wherewith the junior operator swung half around in the

swivel-chair and exposed to Peter an expression of mild imploration.

Two gray lids over cavernous sockets lifted and lowered upon shining

black eyes, one of which seemed to lack focus. Peter recalled then

that the Chief had said something about a second operator having only

one human eye, the other being glass.

"This is your first trip?"

The sallow face was inclined, and the pallid lips moved dryly.

"I just came from the school. I'm pretty green. You see----"

"I see. We'd better let me take the first trick. I'll sit in till

midnight. After that there's very little doing. You may have to relay

a position report or so. Be sure and don't work on navy time. The

Chief will watch you closely for long-distance. The farther you work,

the better he'll like it. How's the air? Have you listened in?"

"Do you mean--static? I heard a little. Seemed pretty far away,

though."

Peter adjusted the nickeled straps about his head and pressed the

rubber disks tight to his ears. He tilted his head slightly. A

distant but harsh rasping, as of countless needle-points grating on

glass, occurred in the head phones. This was caused by charges of

electricity in the air, known to wireless men as "static." Percolating

through the scratching was a clear, bell-like note. The San Pedro

station was having something to say to a destroyer off the coast.

With delicate fingers Peter raised the tuning-knob a few points. Dale,

the junior operator, hands clutched behind him, stared with the fearful

adoration of an apprentice. He seemed to be making a mental notation

of every move that Peter made, for future reference.

"Ah--do you mind if I ask a few questions? You see, I'm kind of green."

"Go ahead!" Peter said cordially.

"Where do I eat? With the crew? I hear that lots of these ships make

you eat with the crew."

"No. In the main dining-saloon. Mr. Blanchard, the purser, will take

care of you. See him at six thirty."

A deep monstrous shudder, arising to a clamor, half roar, half shriek,

issued from the boilers of the _Vandalia_.

"It's rather interesting to watch us pull out," said Peter when the

noise had ceased. "But be careful. There's no rail around this deck."

He was on his hands and knees at the motor-generator with a pad of

sandpaper between his fingers when the tremulous voice of the junior

operator sounded in the doorway. "Mr. Moore, there's some excitement

on the dock."

Peter followed the narrow shoulders to the starboard side and looked

down. The _Vandalia_ was warping out from the pierhead with a sobbing

tug at her stern. He noted that the head-lines were still fast. A

straggling line of passengers' friends, wives, husbands, and

sweethearts was moving slowly toward the end of the pier, for a final

parting wave.

Something seemed to be wrong at the shore end of the gangplank, for,

despite the fact that the ship was swinging out, the plank was still

up. In the midst of an excited crowd a taxicab purred and smoked.

There was a general parting in the crowd as the door was flung open.

Two figures emerged, were lost from sight, and reappeared at the foot

of the plank. An incoherent something was roared from the bridge.

One of the figures appeared to be struggling, clutching at the rail.

For an instant she seemed to glance in Peter's direction. But her face

could hardly be seen, for it was shrouded by a heavy gray veil. A gray

hood covered her hair, and a long cloak reached to her shoe-tops.

Patiently urging her was a Chinese woman in silk jacket, trousers, and

jeweled slippers. A customs officer tried to break through the mob,

but somehow was held back. The gray-hooded figure suddenly seemed to

become limp, and the Chinese woman half lifted, half pushed her the

remaining distance to the promenade deck.

Peter was then conscious of a staring, lifeless eye fixed upon his.

"What do you make of it, Mr. Moore?" the junior operator wanted to know.

"Of that?" said Peter. "Nothing--nothing at all. By the way, I forgot

to tell you that the captain has issued strict orders forbidding

subofficers to use the starboard decks. Always, when you're going

forward, or aft, walk on the port side."

CHAPTER IV

Peter turned over the log-book and the wireless-house to Dale, a few

minutes before midnight.

"Everything's cleared up. The static is worse, and KPH may want you to

relay a message or two to Honolulu. If you have trouble, let me know."

"Yes, yes," replied Dale, looking over his shoulder nervously. "I

will. Thanks."

Peter left him to the mercies of the static. As he descended the iron

ladder to the promenade-deck, he imagined he saw some one moving

underneath him. The figure, whoever or whatever it was, slid around

the white wall and vanished as his foot felt the deck. He hastened to

follow.

As he stepped into the light a low, sibilant whisper reached him. At

the cross-corridor doorway he was in time to see the flicker of a

vanishing gray garment and a sandaled foot on a naked ankle flash over

the vestibule wave-check. He shook open the door and followed.

A vertical stripe of yellow light cleaved the dark of the corridor as a

door was quietly shut. He heard the faint, distant click of a

door-latch. Counting the entrances to that one, and sure that he had

made no mistake, he rapped. The near-by clank of the engine-room well

was the reply. He tried the handle. It was immovable. He struck a

match. It was stateroom forty-four.

Peter went to the purser's office. Light rippled through the wrinkled

green, round window, as he had hoped. He tapped lightly, and a voice

bade him to enter.

Blanchard, the purser, dwarfed, perpetually stoop-shouldered, looked up

from a clump of cargo reports and blinked through convex, thick, steel

spectacles at his interrupter. His eyes were red and dim with a

gray-blue, uncertain definition which always reminded Peter of oysters.

Blanchard had been purser of the _Vandalia_ for thirteen years, and

Peter knew that the man possessed the garrulous habits of the oyster as

well.

"Well, well!" observed Blanchard in the crisp, brittle accents of

senility; "so you're back again, eh? Well, well, well." There was no

emphasis laid on the words. They were all struck from the same piece

of ancient metal.

"Here I am!" agreed Peter with mild enthusiasm. "The bad penny!"

"Ha, ha! The bad penny returns!" The exclamation died in a futile

cough. "What are you prowlin' around ship this time o' night for, eh?

After three bells, Sparks. Time for respectable people to be fast

asleep. Or, are you leavin' the radio unwatched?"

"I'm looking for information." Peter drew himself by stiffened arms

upon the purser's single bunk.

"Lookin' for information?" The thin voice suffered the quavery

attrition of surprise. "Funny place to be lookin' for that commodity.

What's on your mind? Eh?"

"Chinamen!"

Blanchard tilted the rusted spectacles to his forehead, and the

motionless gray orbs seemed to glint with a half-dead light.

"Chinamen? What Chinamen?" The spectacles slid back into place.

"One, a woman, came aboard as we were pulling out this afternoon. Who

is she? Where is she? Where's she from? Where's she going? Who's

with her? That's what I want to clear up."

"Is that all?" squeaked Blanchard. His wrinkled, dried lips were

struggling as if with indecision. A veiled, a thinly veiled conflict

of emotions apparently was taking place behind that ancient gray mask.

"What--what for?" was the final outcome in a hesitant half-whisper.

"My private information," smiled Peter. "Just curious, that's all.

Didn't mean to pry open any dark secrets." He made as if to go.

"Sparks! Don't be in a hurry. I'm not so busy."

"Well?"

"What's botherin' you? Maybe I could straighten you out."

"Who are the occupants of stateroom forty-four?" Peter replied.

Again the expression shifted like water smitten by an evil wind.

"Forty-four!" The words were mild explosions.

A long cardboard sheet with blue and red lines was produced from a

noiselessly opened drawer.

"The passenger list. We shall see." Blanchard's red, shiny forefinger

clawed down the column of names, halting at the numeral forty-four.

The space was blank. "You see?"

"Empty?"

"Empty." A restrained note of triumph was unquestionably evident in

the purser's cracked voice.

"I'll bother you with just one more question. What is Len Yang?"

A look of doubt, of incredulity bordering upon feeble indignation,

settled upon the serrated countenance. But Blanchard only shook his

head as if he did not comprehend.

Peter slipped down from the bunk. "Guess I'll take a turn on deck, if

the fog's lifted, and roll in. G'night, purser."

Blanchard started to say something, evidently thought better of it, and

retrieved his pen. As he dipped the fine point into the red ink by

mistake he flung another frown over his shoulder. The wireless man

lingered on the threshold, swinging the door tentatively.

"G'night, Sparks."

CHAPTER V

The _Vandalia_ was wallowing majestically through long, dead black

swells. Peter poked his way up forward to the solitary lookout in the

peak and glanced overside. Broad, phosphorescent swords broke smoothly

with a rending, rushing gurgle over the steep cut-water. His eyes

darted here and there over the void as his mind struggled to straighten

out this latest kink.

What facts of significance he might have discovered from Blanchard were

overshadowed by the purser's suspicious attitude. Blanchard knew, and

Blanchard, for some reason, did not choose to divulge. This made

matters more interesting, if slightly more complicated.

He was now reasonably sure of several things, without really having

definite grounds for being sure. The malignant-eyed Chinese woman and

whoever she had successfully concealed behind her in the loft above Ah

Sih King's were now aboard the _Vandalia_. He was quite positive that

he had recognized her in the woman who had come aboard in company with

the gray-cloaked figure at the last minute before sailing-time.

He recalled the scene on the pierhead, and it occurred to him that the

eyes behind the gray veil, before their owner was whisked up to the

deck and from his sight, had fastened upon him for a long breath.

"Four bells, all well!" bawled the lookout as four clanging strokes

rang out from abaft the wheel-house.

And Blanchard had proved that stateroom forty-four was unoccupied.

Peter decided to borrow a master key in the morning, from the chief

engineer, perhaps, and investigate stateroom forty-four. And with the

feeling that he was on the verge of discovering something which did not

exist, he prepared to turn in.

He was not undressed when the lock grated, the door lurched open, and

the pale visage of Dale teetered at his shoulder. An attempt at

grinning ended in a hissing sob of in-taken breath. The limp frame

flung itself in the bunk beside Peter, and Dale's white, perspiring

face was buried in palsied hands.

"Feel the motion?" Peter pulled down one of the hands, gently

uncovering the expressionless eye.

"I wish I was dead!"

"Want me to finish your trick?"

Dale's face disappeared in the pillow. A moment he was stark. His

head partly revolved, profiling a yellow, pointed nose against the

white of the linen.

"Static's much worse, Mr. Moore. Frisco's sent me the same message

three times now. It's for Honolulu. He says he won't repeat it

again." The pale lips trembled in misery. "And there seems to be a

funny sort of static in the receivers. The dynamos in the engine-room

may cause it."

"That's strange," Peter reflected as he slipped on his blue coat.

"There's never been any induction on board as far back as I can

remember. Does it hum--or what?"

"No, it grates, like static. Sounds like static, and yet it doesn't.

Kind of a hoarse rumble, like a broken-down spark-coil."

Two even rows of white teeth drew in the trembling lip and clung to it.

"That awful staticky sound---- And the _Rover's_ been calling us." He

groaned miserably. "I couldn't answer either of them. I was lying on

the carpet!"

"Get some sleep," advised Peter. "When you feel better come up and

relieve me. If I were you I wouldn't smoke cigarettes when you think

it's rough."

"I won't smoke another cigarette as long as I live!"

Peter slipped into his uniform, draped an oil-skin coat about his

slender shoulders, and made his way up to the wireless house. The

receivers were lying on the floor.

The _Vandalia_ was entering a zone of pale, thin mist, which created

circular, misty auras about the deck-lights. The tarpaulined

donkey-engine beneath the after-cargo booms rattled as the _Vandalia's_

stern sank into a hollow, and the beat of the engines was muffled and

deeper. A speck of white froth glinted on the black surface and

vanished astern.

The wireless-house seemed warm and cozy in the glare of its green and

white lights. An odor of cheap cigarette-smoke puffed out as he opened

the door.

Peter slipped the hard-rubber disks over his ears and tapped the slider

of the tuner. Static was bad to-night, trickling, exploding and

hissing in the receivers.

The electric lights became dim under the strain of the heavy motor, as

he slid up the starting handle. The white-hot spark exploded in a

train of brisk dots and dashes. He snapped up the aerial switch and

listened.

KPH--the San Francisco station--rang clear and loud through the spatter

of the electric storm. Peter flashed back his O.K., tuned for the

Kahuka Head station at Honolulu, and retransmitted the message.

Sensitizing the detector, he slid up the tuning handle for high waves.

Static, far removed, trickled in. Then a faint, musical wailing like a

violin's E-string pierced this. The violin was the government station

at Arlington, Virginia, transmitting a storm warning to ships in the

South Atlantic. For five minutes the wailing persisted. Sliding the

tuning handle downward, Peter listened for commercial wave-lengths.

A harsh grinding, unmusical as emery upon hollow bronze, rasped

stutteringly in the head phones. Laboriously, falteringly, the grating

was cleaved into clumsy dots and dashes of the Continental Code, under

the quaking fingers of some obviously frightened and inexperienced

operator. Were these the sounds which had unnerved Dale? For a time

the raspings spelled nothing intelligible. The unknown sender

evidently was repeating the same word again and again. It held four

letters. Once they formed, H-I-J-X. Another time, S-E-L-J. And

another, L-P-H-E.

The painstaking intent, as the operator's acute ears recognized, was

identical in each instance. Frequently the word was incoherent

altogether, the signals meaning nothing.

Suddenly Peter jerked up his head. Out of the jumble stood the word,

as an unseen ship will often stand out nakedly in a fog rift. Over and

over, badly spaced, the infernal rasp was spelling, _H-E-L-P_.

He waited for the signature of this frantic operator. But none

occurred. Following a final letter "p" the signals ceased.

For a minute or two, while Peter nervously pondered, the air was

silent. Then another station called him. A loud droning purr filled

the receivers. Peter gave the "k" signal. The brisk voice of the

transport _Rover_ droned:

"I can't raise KPH. Will you handle an M-S-G for me?"

"Sure!" roared the _Vandalia's_ spark. "But wait a minute. Have you

heard a broken down auxiliary asking for help? He's been jamming me

for fifteen minutes. Seems to be very close, K."

"Nix," replied the _Rover_ breezily. "Can't be at all close or I would

hear him, too. I can see your lights from my window. You're off our

port quarter. Here's the M-S-G."

Peter accepted the message, retransmitting it to the KPH operator, then

called the wheelhouse on the telephone. Quine, first officer, answered

sleepily.

"Has the lookout reported any ship in the past hour excepting the

_Rover_?"

"Is that the _Rover_ on our port quarter?" Quine's voice was gruffly

amazed. Like most mariners of the old school, he considered the

wireless machine a nuisance. Yet its intelligence occasionally caught

him off guard.

"Only thing in sight, Sparks."

Peter made an entry in the log-book, folded his hands and shut his

eyes. The Leyden jars rattled in their mahogany sockets as the

_Vandalia_ climbed a wave, faltered, and sped into the hollow. Far

removed from her pivot of gravity, the wireless house behaved after the

manner of an express elevator. But the wireless house chair was bolted

to the floor.

Wrinkles of perplexity creased his forehead. Had this stuttering

static anything in kind with those other formless events? If not, what

terrified creature was invoking his aid in this blundering fashion?

A simple test would prove if the signals were of local origin--from a

miniature apparatus aboard the ship. He hoped anxiously for the

opportunity. And in less than a half hour the opportunity was given

him.

A tarred line scraped the white belly of the life-boat which swelled up

from the deck outside the door, giving forth a dull, crunching sound

with each convulsion of the engines. The square area above it danced

with reeling stars, moiled by a purple-black heaven.

Peter, who had been studying the tarred rope, swung about in the chair

and dropped an agitated finger to the silvered wire which rested

against the glittering detector crystal. A tiny, blue-red flame

snapped from his finger to the crystal chip! The frantic operator was

aboard the _Vandalia_!

The broken stridulations took on the coherence of intelligible dots and

dashes. The former blundering was absent, as if the tremulous hand of

the sender was steadied by the grip of a dominant necessity; the

signals clarified by the pressure of terror.

"_Do not try to find me_," it stammered and halted.

Some maddened pulse seemed to leap to life in Peter's throat. His

fingers, working at the base of the tiny instrument, were cold and damp.

"_You must wait_," rasped the unknown sender, faltering. "_You must

help me_! _You are watched._"

For a breath there was no sound in the receivers other than the beating

of his heart.

_Click_! _Snap_! _Sputter_! Then: "_Wait for the lights of China_!"

The receivers rattled to the red blotter, and Peter rushed out on deck.

Slamming the door, he stared at the spurting streams of white in the

racing water. Indescribably feminine was the fumbling touch of that

unknown sender!

A grating--hollow, metallic--occurred in the lee of the wireless cabin.

A footfall sounded, coincident with the heavy collision into his side

of an unwieldy figure whose hands, greasy and hot, groped over his.

Both grunted.

"'Sthat you, Sparks?" They were the German gutturals of Luffberg, one

of the oilers on the twelve-to-six watch. "Been fixin' the ventilator.

Chief wondered if you were up. Wants to know why you ain't been down

to say hello."

Peter decided to lay a portion of his difficulties before Minion.

CHAPTER VI

The first operator had developed for himself at an early stage of his

occupancy of the _Vandalia's_ wireless house the warm friendship of the

chief engineer. A wireless man is far more dependent for his peace of

mind upon the engine-room crew than upon the forward crew. The latter

has only one interest in him: that he stick to his instruments; while

the engine-room crew strictly is the source from which his blessings

flow, his blessings taking the invisible, vital form of electric

current.

Wireless machines are gourmands of electricity. They are wastrels.

Not one-tenth of the energy sucked from the ship's power wires finds

its way through the maze of coils and jars to the antennae between the

mastheads.

The _Vandalia's_ engine-room equipment was installed long before

wireless telegraphy was a maritime need and a government requirement.

Hence, her dynamos protested vigorously against the strain imposed upon

them by the radio machine. Any electric engine is unlike any steam

engine. Steam engines will do so much work--no more. Dynamos or

motors will do so much work--and then more. They can be overloaded,

unsparingly. But the strain tells. Stout, dependable parts become

hot, wear away, crumble, snap.

In the typical case of the _Vandalia_, the question of whether or not

the wireless men should be provided with all of the current they

required, was narrowed down to individuals.

If Minion had disliked Peter Moore he could have slowed down the

dynamos at the critical times when the operator needed the high

voltage; but Peter had had encounters with chief engineers before. He

had at first courted Minion's good graces with fair cigars, radio

gossip and unflagging courtesy. And on discovering that the chief was

a sentimentalist at heart and a poet by nature, he had presented him

with an inexpensively bound volume of his favorite author. Daring, but

a master-stroke! He had not since wanted for voltage, and plenty of it.

He pondered the advisability of taking Minion entirely into his

confidence as he followed the sweated, undershirted shoulders to the

engine-room galley, and thence across the oily grill of shining steel

bars which comprised one of the numerous and hazardous superfloors

which surrounded the cylinders.

Minion was nursing a stubbornly warm bearing in the port shaft alley.

The fat cylinder revolved with a pleasant ringing noise, the blurring

knuckles of the frequent joints vanishing down the yellow, vaulted

alley to a point of perspective, where the shaft projected through the

hull. The floundering of the great propellers seemed alternately to

compress and expand the damp atmosphere.

The sad, white face of Minion arose from the dripping flanks of the

journal as he caught sight of Peter in the arched entrance. A pale

smile flickered at his lips.

The chief did not in any wise reflect his monstrously heaving,

oil-dripping surroundings. He was a small, deliberate man, with oceans

of repressed energies. His skin had the waxy whiteness of a pond lily.

An exquisitely trimmed black moustache adorned his mouth. The deep

brown eyes of a visionary rested beneath the gentle, scythe-like curves

of thin and pointed eyebrows.

"You look worried," vouchsafed Minion as their hands met. His quiet

voice had a clarity which projected it nicely through the bedlam of

engine-room noises. "Why you up so early--or so late? Anything wrong?"

Peter took out a cigarette and nervously lighted it at the sputtering

flame Minion held for him. "Mr. Minion, something's in the wind," he

complained, and hesitated. He was at the verge of telling what he had

seen on the promenade deck, of the confusion on the pierhead, of the

unaccountable behavior of the woman in the window above Ah Sih King's,

of the suspicious attitude of Blanchard, of the recent plea for help.

Again something checked him.

"Mr. Minion, what is Len Yang? And where is it?"

The scythe-like brows contracted. Minion's lucid, brown eyes rested on

his lips, seeming to await an elaboration of the query. His features

suddenly had stiffened. His whole attitude appeared on the moment to

have undergone a change, from one of friendly interest to a keen

defensiveness.

"Len Yang is a city in China. Why?"

The operator suspected that Minion was sparring for time.

"Where is Len Yang?"

"Do you mean, how does one reach Len Yang?"

"Either."

"Mr. Moore"--the suspicion fell from the chief's expression, leaving it

calm and grave--"you are not an amateur. You have discretion. The man

who controls Len Yang is the _Vandalia's_ owner."

"Why, I understood the Pacific and Western Atlantic Transport Line

owned her!"

"This man--he is a Chinese. Oh, I've never seen him, Mr. Moore. One

of the richest of China's unknown aristocrats, the central power of the

cinnabar ring. You have never gone up the river with us to load at

Soo-chow?"

Peter shook his head. "Cinnabar from his mine is brought down the

Yangtze on junks and transferred at Soo-chow?"

Minion seemed not to be listening. His eyes were stagnant with an

appalling retrospect. "A terrible place--horrible! Five years ago I

visited Len Yang. Hideous people with staring eyes, dripping the

blood-red slime of the mines! And girls! Young girls! Beautiful--for

a while." He sighed. "They work in that vicious hole!"

"Young girls?" Peter exclaimed.

"Imported. From everywhere. I tried to find why. There is no

explanation. They come--they work--they become hideous--they die! It

is his habit. No one understands. Poor things!"

Peter was staring at him narrowly. "Quite sure he imports them to work

in the mines?"

Minion nodded vehemently. "I made sure of that. I went up the river

as _his_ guest. Trouble with the seepage pumps. Hundreds of them

drowned like rats. Len Yang is near the trade route into India.

Leprosy--filth--vermin! God! You should have seen the rats!

Monsters! They eat them. Poor devils! And live in holes carved out

of the ruby mud."

He tore the clump of waste from his left hand and ground it under his

heel.

"And in the center of this frightfulness--his palace! Snow-white

marble, whiter than the Taj by moonlight. But its base is stained red,

a creeping blood-red from the cinnabar. Damn him!"

"No escape?" Peter muttered.

"Escape!" Minion shouted. "_Dang hsin_! They call him the Gray

Dragon. He reaches over every part of Asia. That is no exaggeration.

Take my advice, Mr. Moore, if you have stumbled upon one of his

schemes--_ni chue ba_--don't meddle!"

The white face writhed, and for a new reason Peter smothered the

impulse to tell the agitated Minion what he had seen. Their

conversation drifted to general shipboard matters. When he left he

borrowed the chief engineer's master key on the excuse that he had

locked himself out of the wireless cabin.

Besides a stiffening head wind the ship was now laboring into piling

head seas. Far beyond the refulgence of the scattered lights stars

shone palely. Flecks of streaming white were making their appearance

at the toppling wave crests.

A hail of stinging spray, flung inboard by a long gust, struck Peter's

face sharply as he struggled forward, rattling like small shot against

the vizor of his cap and smarting his eyes. The needle-like drops were

icy cold. The elastic fabric of the _Vandalia_ shivered, her broad

nose sinking into a succession of black mountains. Peak gutters roared

as the cascading water was sucked back to the untiring surface.

Gaining the cross entrance, he braced his strength against the forces

of wind which imprisoned the door, and crept down the passage.

His heart pounded as his groping fingers outlined the cold iron

numerals on the panel. Nervously, he inserted the master key into the

door lock, and paused to listen.

Rhythmic snoring moaned from an opened transom near by. What other

night sounds might have been abroad were engulfed by the imminent

throbbing in the engine-room well.

Stateroom forty-four's transom was closed. The lock yielded. The door

yawned soundlessly. A round, portentous eye glimmered on the opposite

wall. An odor of recently wet paint and of new bed linen met him. The

excited pulsing of his heart outsounded the engines.

He shut the door cautiously, not to awake the occupants of the berths,

and fancied he could again hear the warning sibilance of the whisper,

but in sleep, perhaps drawn through unconscious lips.

Eagerly, his hand slipped over the enameled wall and found the electric

switch. Turning, to cover all corners of the stateroom he snapped on

the light.

Stateroom forty-four, through whose doorway he could have sworn to have

seen a sandaled foot vanish less than three hours previous, was empty!

The blue-flowered side curtains of the white enameled bunks were draped

back in ornamental stiffness. Below the pillows the upper sheets were

neatly furled like incoming billows on a coral beach. He threw open

the closet door. Bare! Not one sign of occupancy could he find, and

he looked everywhere.

As he made to leave the room a small oblong of white paper was thrust

under the door. He hesitated in surprise, stooped to seize it and

flung open the door. A gust of night, wind--the slamming of a

door--and the messenger was gone.

Tremblingly, he unfolded the paper. His eyes dilated. Hastily

scrawled in the lower right-hand corner of the otherwise blank leaf was

a replica of the blurred sign that had caused such consternation on the

part of Lo Ong.

The ideograph had twice been brought to his attention. It was

apparently a solemn warning. Should he heed it? He felt that he was

watched. But the porthole glowed emptily.

Lighting a cigarette, he dropped down to the bunk, cupped his chin in

his palms, and frowned at the green carpet.

He was being frustrated, by persons of adroit cunning. It was

maddening. This had ceased to be an adventurous lark. It was to

become a fight against weapons whose sole object seemed to be to guard

the retreat of some evil spirit.

It occurred to him suddenly that he should be grateful upon one score

at least: He had not lost the trail, for the symbols were unchanged.

But from that point the trail vanished--vanished as abruptly as if its

design had been wiped off the earth! Sharp eyed and eared, alertness

night after night availed him nothing. And not until the twinkling

lights of Nagasaki were put astern, when the _Vandalia_ turned her nose

into the swollen bed of the Yellow Sea, did the traces again show

faintly.

CHAPTER VII

That a recrudescence of those involved in the murky affair might be

imminent was the thought induced in Peter's mind as the green coast of

Japan heaved over the horizon. With each thrust of the _Vandalia's_

screws the cipher was nearing its solution. Each cylinder throb

narrowed the distance to the shore lights of China--the lights of

Tsung-min Island. And then--what?

In a corner of the smoking-room he puffed at his cigarette and watched

the poker players as he drummed absently upon the square of green cork

inlaid in the corner table. The vermilion glow of the skylight dimmed

and died. Lights came on. A clanging cymbal in the energetic hands of

a deck steward boomed at the doorway, withdrew and gave up its life in

a far away, tinny clatter.

The petulant voice of a hardware salesman, who was secretly known to

represent American moneyed interests in Mongolia, drifted through the

haze of tobacco smoke at the poker table.

"----that's what I'd like to know. Damn nonsense--saving steam,

probably--off Wu-Sung before midnight--if--wanted to throw in a little

coal--means I miss the river boat to-morrow--not another--Saturday.

Dammit!"

Peter drew long at the cigarette and glanced thoughtfully at the

oak-paneled ceiling. Chips clicked. The petulant voice continued:

"----rottenest luck ever had." Evidently he was referring to his

losses. "Rotten line--rottener service--miss my man--Mukden----" The

voice ceased as its owner half turned his head, magnetized by the

intentness of the operator's gaze. Peter glanced away. The salesman

devoted himself to the dealer.

The _Vandalia_ was bearing into a thin mist. The night was cool,

quiet. Had he been on deck Peter would have seen the last lights of

Osezaki engulfed as if at the dropping of a curtain.

During the voyage he had haunted the smoking-room, hoping that by dint

of patient listening he might catch an informative word dropped

carelessly by one of the players. No such luck. The players were

out-of-season tourists, bound for South China or India, or salesmen,

patiently immersed in the long and strenuous task of killing time.

"----thirty--thirty-five--forty--forty-five----" The fat man was

counting his losings.

Faint, padded footsteps passed the port doorway. Peter became aware of

an elusive perfume--scented rice powder----

"----seventy-five--eighty--eighty-five--ninety----"

A pale, malignant face was framed momentarily in one of the starboard

windows.

Peter blinked, then bounded after. The salesman impeded his progress

and grudgingly gave way.

The deck was empty, slippery with the wet of the mist. He was suddenly

aware that one of the ports, in the neighborhood of the stateroom he

had entered, was ajar. Nervously he halted, gasping as a long,

trembling hand, at the extremity of a spectral wrist, plucked at his

sleeve. Blanched as an arm of the adolescent moon, it fumbled weakly

at his clutching fingers--and was swiftly withdrawn!

The staring eyes of a white, gibbous face sank back from the hole.

Below the nose the face seemed not to exist.

Its horror wrapped an icy cord about his heart. He plunged his arm to

the shoulder through the round opening, struck a yielding, warm body;

descending claws steeled about his wrist and deliberately forced him

back.

The brass-bound glass squeezed on his fingers. He wrenched them free,

crushed, throbbing, and warmly wet. The anguish seemed to extend to

his elbow. Then, suddenly, the gruff, seasoned voice of Captain Jones

descended from space behind him. "Sparks, come to my cabin."

Peter followed the brutish shoulders to the forward companionway,

endeavoring to clarify his thoughts. Mild confusion prevailed when

Captain Jones closed and locked the door of his spacious stateroom

behind them and dropped heavily into one of the cumbersome teak chairs.

He was a hardened, brawny chunk of a man, choleric in aspect and

temperament, brutal in method, bluntly decisive in opinion. Iron was

his metal. "Starboard Jones" was one of the few living men who had

successfully run the Jap blockade into Vladivostok during that bloody

tiff between the black bear and the island panther.

Reddened sockets displayed keen, blue eyes in a background of perpetual

fire. His large, swollen nose had a vinous tint, acquiring

purplishness in cold weather. Tiny red veins, as numerous as the

cracks in Satsuma-ware, spread across both cheeks in a carmine filigree.

His cabin was ornamented chiefly by hand-tinted photographs from the

yoshiwaras of Nagasaki, of simpering, coy geishas. Souvenirs of their

trade, glittering fans, nicked teacups, flimsy sandals, adorned the

available shelf room. Cigars as brawny and black as if their maker had

striven to emulate the captain's own bulk were scattered among papers

on his narrow desk.

He reached clumsily for one of these brown cylinders now, neglecting to

remove his glance of gloating austerity from the operator's tense face.

"Haven't seen much of you lately, Sparks," he observed, applying a

steady match flame to the oval butt. He spoke in his usual tones, with

a gruffness that balanced on a razor edge between rough jocularity and

official harshness. "What's new? Have one of my ropes?"

Peter studied the glowing end narrowly. "Had a little trouble first

night out. No, thanks. Not smoking to-night." His bruised

finger-tips were curved up tenderly in his coat pocket.

"What's 'at?" The steel eyes were motionless beneath half-lowered lids.

"Some one used an electric machine. Jammed my signals."

The choleric face dipped knowingly. What Captain Jones did not

comprehend he invariably pretended to comprehend. "Noticed anything

else?" His ruddy face was now weighty with significance.

Peter sat up abruptly. "What!"

A thick, red forefinger threatened, "Lis'n to me, Sparks, you're a

overgrown, blundering bull in a china-shop. You're----"

"Well?" There was a trace of anger in Peter's suave inquiry. His face

became stony white. A spot of color appeared at either cheek.

"I mean: Keep your damn nose out of what don't concern you. Savvy?"

The heated words spilled thickly from the captain's red lips. "I mean:

Butt out of what concerns Chinese women and--and--other words, mind

your own particular damn business! Duty on this ship's to mind the

radio. What goes on outside your shanty's none of your damn concern!"

Captain Jones' mouth remained open, and the butt of the black cigar

slid into it.

Peter raised a restraining hand. His lips trembled. His eyes seemed

to snap in a rapid fire between the eyes and mouth of the big man

slouched down in the chair in front of him. "Wait a minute," he spat

out. "Since you do know that somebody is being kidnapped on this

ship----"

"What in hell do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. A Chinese woman, no matter who she is--is hiding

some one, a woman, somewhere on this ship. That woman--that woman

who's being held--grabbed my hand not five minutes ago. It's your

duty----"

"Keep your hands where they belong. You're talking like a fool.

Kidnapped? You're crazy. My duty? You're a fool! You're talking

baby talk." Captain Jones sprang from his chair. "You're on this ship

to tend the wireless," he bawled. "You're under oath to keep your

mouth shut. Any one back there?"

"No!"

"Don't you know it breaks a government rule when that room's empty--at

sea?"

The mist-laden wind shrilled through the screen door abruptly thrust

back. Captain Jones slammed the stout inner door. Peter turned up his

coat collar, bound a clean handkerchief about his aching fingers,

climbed agilely over the life-rafts, passed the roaring, black funnels,

and entered the wireless house.

The low, intermingling whine of Jap stations was broken by an insistent

P. and O. liner, yapping for attention. Shanghai stiffly droned a

reply, advising the P. and O. man to sweeten his spark.

Peter tapped his detector and grunted. Shanghai was loud--close! The

_Vandalia_ must be nearing the delta.

"----Nanking Road. Stop. Forty casks of soey----" yelped the P. and O.

Nearing the great river! Out of the mist a faint blur would come--the

first lights of China!

"----Thirteen cases of tin----" The P. and O.'s spark remained

unsweetened.

Would the lights be Hi-Tai-Sha--Tsung-min?--port or starboard?

Far below decks a bell jangled faintly. The throbbing of the engines

was suddenly hushed. The bell sounded distantly, through a portentous

silence. Peter glanced at the clock. Half-past twelve.

The silence was shattered by a turbulent, stern lifting rumble as the

screws reversed. The _Vandalia_ wallowed heavily, and lay with the

yellow tide.

Extinguishing the lights, Peter slipped out on deck, leaned over the

edge, and peered into the murk. His heart pumped nervously.

At first all was blank. Then a misty, gray-white glow seemed to swim

far to port. Murkily, it took form, vanished, reappeared and--was

swallowed up again.

But these were not the lights of Tsung-min. The ship was in the river.

He knew those lights well. Even now the _Vandalia_, was slipping down

with the current abreast of Woo-Sung! The first lights of China! But

what was happening? He dashed to the starboard side.

Out of the mist there arose a tall, gaunt specter. A junk. Perhaps a

collision was decreed by the evil spirit of the Whang-poo. But the

usual shriekings of doomed river men were absent. The gray bulk

floated idly with the steamer. The silence of death permeated both

craft.

At a loss to account for this queer coincidence, this mute communion,

Peter elbowed over the edge, dangerously high above the water, and slid

down a stanchion to the promenade deck.

Simultaneously every light on that side of the ship was extinguished.

As his feet struck the metal gutter, several unseen bodies rushed past

him, aft.

He was grabbed from behind and hurled to the deck. Springing up, he

heard the thick breathing of his unknown assailant. He lunged for the

sound, met flying fists, smashed his man against the rail. The blow

knocked the wind from his antagonist, or broke his back.

Peter did not pause to make inquiries. As the limp body thudded to the

wood, the operator sprinted after the vanished figures.

A lone light on the after spur illumined a dim confusion in the cargo

well. The stern of the junk was backed against the rail. Oars flashed

faintly as the crew of the junk strove to keep her fast against the

steamer's side. But where was the crew of the _Vandalia_? Had Captain

Jones consented to and perhaps aided in this mid-river tryst?

Another source of illumination sprang into being. A dong was burning

yellowly on the junk's poop deck, casting a plenitude of light upon the

scene.

As Peter dropped down the precipitous ladder into the well, he made out

two figures struggling against the rail. From the junk, imploringly, a

giant Chinese with pigtail flapping held out his long arms. Silent,

his face was writhing with the supplication to hurry.

Peter drove in between the two figures, one of which suddenly collapsed

and lay inert. The other sprang at his neck, sinking long claws into

his throat. Slit eyes glinted close. Before his wind was shut off he

caught the oppressive fragrance of a heavy perfume. A woman!

He struck the clawing hands loose, and she stemmed a scream between

convulsing lips. The woman above Ah Sih King's!

He hurled her back, and she staggered against the iron flank of the

well. A chatter of Chinese broke from her lips. Shaking, she

extracted an envelope from her satin blouse and pressed it into his

hands. Thoughtlessly he stuffed the envelope into his pocket, not

reckoning what it might contain.

The junk swung out, closed in with a smart smack, and the giant on her

deck crouched to spring. He squealed, a high-pitched ululation of

anger. Another sound was abroad, the jangling of the engine-room bell.

Peter struck down the groping hands of the woman and sprang to the

rail, bracing his feet on the smooth iron deck-plate as the Chinese

leaped. A knife glinted. Peter seized a horny wrist with both hands,

bent, and wrenched it. The knife struck the water with a sibilant

splash. The _fokie_ lost his balance. His legs became entangled.

He gibbered with horror as he slipped--slipped----

The Chinese woman sprang at Peter with the frenzy of a pantheress.

A weltering splash--Peter dimly saw the bobbing head before it was

driven below the surface as the junk, yawing in, crowded the swimmer

down.

A life? Nothing to the turgid river, draining all effluvia from the

yellow heart of this festering land.

With a hissing sob, the woman drove Peter backward, raining blow after

blow on his chest. The engines pounded briskly. A boom rattled.

Despairingly, Peter's antagonist shifted her tactics, surprised him by

flinging herself to the rail.

The junk was veering away as the _Vandalia's_ blades took hold.

She poised on the top rail, drew herself together, and leaped!

The junk slid into the mist.

CHAPTER VIII

Peter was conscious of a hot stickiness at his throat where the claws

had taken hold. Then he concerned himself with the gray shape that lay

quite still on the iron deck at his feet. New enemies from other

quarters, he realized, might strike at any instant.

Gathering up the limp form, he climbed the ladder to the darkened

promenade deck and up another flight through the tarpaulin cover to the

boat-deck. Opening the wireless-house door, he deposited his burden

gently upon the carpet, and switched on the light. Then he turned the

key in the lock, and examined his find. A long, gray bag of some heavy

material swathed the small figure from head to foot. There was no sign

of life.

Yelping arose from the river. It was still dark. The sampan coolies

were out early. Peter listened, becoming thoughtful as a solution

seemed to present itself to his problem.

He went out on deck and beckoned to one of them to stand by.

A swaying coolie in the stern of the nearest craft caught sight of him.

"Hie! Hie!" The wagging paddle became mad. The sampan slipped under

the towering shadow and brought up with a smack against the moving

black hull.

Peter pried up the tarpaulin life-boat cover, dragged out a coil of

dirty rope, made one end fast at the foot of the davit, and tossed the

other end overside. The coolie caught it and clung.

Re-entering the wireless cabin, Peter opened his pocket-knife and slit

the cord at the head.

A mass of curly, brown hair flowed out upon the carpet. There was a

silken lisp of underskirts. A faint sigh.

Peter suddenly turned his head. Black, glassy eyes were riveted upon

his from the after window. They vanished.

He jumped up, bolted to the deck, and stood still, listening.

The scuffle of a foot sounded on the port side. Some one was running

forward. He plunged after. The footsteps stopped sharply coincident

with a dull smash, a frantic grunt. The pursued reeled to the deck,

groaning.

Peter pounced upon him, grabbed his collar, and dragged him across the

deck into the wireless house.

"Mr. Moore, the captain told me----" whimpered Dale.

Peter knocked him into the chair, opened the toolbox, and extracted a

length of phosphor-bronze aerial wire. Binding the wiggling arms to

the chair, he made the ends fast behind.

Snapping out the lights, he gathered the gray bag into his arms and

deposited it on the deck in the narrow space between the life-boat and

the edge. He looked down. The coolie was staring up, clinging to the

rope, waiting.

The bag slipped down half-way. A warm moist hand clutched at his

wrist. A faint moan issued from the unseen lips. He jerked again.

The bag came away free, and he tossed it overboard. The yellow current

snatched it instantly from sight.

The hand clung desperately at his wrist. "Don't let them----" began a

sweet voice in his ear.

He wrapped his legs around the rope and worked his way over the edge.

"Arms around my neck!" he commanded hoarsely. "Hold tight!"

Soft arms enfolded him. They dangled at the edge.

The coarse rope slipped swiftly through his fingers, scorching the

palms, seeming to rake at the bones in his hand.

A wild shout came from the wireless house. An echo, forward, answered.

They slipped, twisting, scraping, down the rough strand. His hands

seemed hot enough to burst. Maddened blood throbbed at his eyes, his

ears, and dried his throat. Dimmed lights of the promenade deck soared

upward. A glimmering port-hole followed.

For an eternity they dangled, then shot downward.

Something popped in Peter's ears. His feet struck a yielding deck. He

staggered backward, sprawled. The rope was whipped from his hand. The

warm arms still clung about his neck.

As the world wheeled, a drunken universe, a sullen voice yelped at his

ear. The arms loosened.

The _Vandalia_ twinkled closely and was swept into the mist, a blur, a

phantom. His hands blazed with infernal fire.

He sat up and looked behind him. The river was murderously dark.

Water gurgled under the flimsy bow. The dull tread of feet and a

watery flailing behind him advised Peter that the coolie was struggling

against the rushing current.

Slowly he became conscious of a weight upon his breast, a low sobbing.

A delicate, feminine odor brought him to earth, unraveled his tangled

wits.

He was sitting upon the wet floor of the sampan's low cabin. His

captive had crept close to him for protection. Protection! He

snorted, wondering if the coolie was licensed.

"Hai! Hai! Woo-Sung way." The voice was villainously stubborn.

"Shanghai-way. _Kuai cho_--hurry!" roared Peter. A sigh escaped from

the girl. She snuggled closer. "Woo-Sung. _Pu-shih_! Savvy?"

"Hai! Mebbe can do." The sampan reared, braving the direct onslaught

of the Whang-poo's swift tide.

A myriad of questions in his brain strove for utterance. But the girl

spoke first.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "I am Eileen Lorimer."

"I am--I was the wireless operator of the _Vandalia_."

The coolie paused a moment for breath, then the mad plunging of the

paddle sounded again.

"The wireless operator? You heard my call?"

"Been waiting for China's lights--ever since. But how--what?" he

demanded.

She was silent a moment. "I know the code. My brother owned a private

station. We lived in Pasadena--ages ago. It does seem ages." She

stirred feebly. "You don't mind?"

"No, no," he protested.

"I am afraid--such a long time. Weeks? Years?" She shuddered. "I do

not know. Oh--I want to go home!"

The coolie broke into a working sing-song as he struggled. The tide

should shift before long.

"Were you in the loft above Ah Sih King's?"

"Roped! I broke loose."

"The red note?"

"I scribbled with a nail, and threw it before she knocked me down.

That woman was a demon!"

A pale, yellow glow seemed to body forth from the enshrouding mist.

Dawn was breaking. Soon the great river would be alight.

"School-teacher," the girl was murmuring. "A wedding present for

her--in Ah Sih King's." A small hand fumbled for his, and found it.

"In the back room they began gibbering at me. And this demon came.

Meaningless words--Ah Sih King leered. Called me the luckiest woman in

China."

"But how did you know?"

An empty freighter with propellers flailing half out of water pounded

through the yellow mist close to them.

"Hie! Hie!" shrilled the coolie's warning.

Light seeped through the doorway. The outlines of a dark skirt were

silhouetted against the scrubbed white floor.

"He said when I saw the lights of China I would go aboard a beautiful

ship. She was watching you. Three times our stateroom was changed.

Always at night."

"You used a coil?" Peter was professionally interested on this point.

The girl murmured affirmatively. "She had some affliction. A San

Francisco doctor said the electric machine would cure it. And I

pretended to use it, too. But it broke down that night."

The yellow light grew stronger. Equipment of the cabin emerged: a

crock of rice and fish, a corked jug, a bundle of crude chop-sticks

bound with frayed twine, a dark mess of boiled sea-weed on a greasy

slab.

He looked down. The girl moved her head. Their eyes met.

Timid, gray ones with innocent candor searched him. Shining dark hair

rippled down either side of a pale, lovely face. She was younger than

he had expected, more beautiful than he had hoped. Her rosebud of a

mouth trembled in the overtures of a smile.

His feelings were divided between admiration for her and horror--she

had escaped so narrowly. In the realization of that moment Peter

shaped his course. His following thought was of finances.

He brought to light a handful of change. Less than one dollar,

disregarding four twenty-cent Hu-Peh pieces; hardly enough to pay off

the sampan coolie.

His charge sighed helplessly, thereby clinching his resolution. "I

haven't a penny," she said.

He explored the side-pocket of his coat, hoping against fact that he

had not changed his bill-fold to his grip. His fingers encountered an

unfamiliar object.

The struggling pantheress flashed into his mind. And the wrinkled

envelope she had drawn from her satin jacket and pressed into his hand.

Past dealings with Chinese gave him the inkling that he had been

unknowingly bribed.

A scarlet stamp, a monograph, was imposed in the upper right corner of

the pale blue oblong.

"Money--Chinese bills. Full of them!" Miss Lorimer gasped. "I saw it.

What are they for? And why did that dreadful woman----"

"Jet-t-e-e-ee!" sang the coolie, swinging the oar hard over. The

sampan grated against a landing. "Shanghai. _Ma-tou_! _H[=a]n liang

bu dung y[=a]ng che l[=a]i_!"

Peter was counting the pack. "Fifty one-thousand-dollar Bank of China

bills!"

Excited yelpings occurred on the _ma-tou_. The rickshaw coolies were

dickering for their unseen fare.

Peter tossed the sampan boy all the coins he had, and left him to

gibber over them as he lifted the girl to the jetty. She clung to his

arm, trembling, as the coolies formed a grinning, shouting circle about

them. More raced in from the muddy bund.

"What are we going to do?" she groaned.

"We are going to cable your mother that you are starting for home by

the first steamer," Peter cried, swinging her into the cleanest and

most comfortable rickshaw of the lot. "The _Mongolia_ sails this

afternoon."

"What will become of you?" she demanded.

Peter gave her his ingenuous smile. "I will vanish--for a while.

Otherwise I may vanish--permanently."

Miss Lorimer reached out with her small white hand and touched his

sleeve. They were jouncing over the Su-Chow bridge, on their way to

the American Consulate. "Won't I see you again? Ever?" She looked

bewildered and lost, as if this strange old land had proved too much

for her powers of readjustment. Her rosebud mouth seemed to quiver.

"Are you in danger, Mr. Moore?"

Peter glimpsed a very yellow, supercilious face swinging in his

direction from the padding throng.

"A little, perhaps," he conceded.

"Because of me?"

The yellow face reappeared and was swallowed again by the crowd, as a

speck of mud is engulfed by the Yangtze.

Miss Lorimer repeated her question. Peter shook his head in an

extravagant denial, and helped her down from the rickshaw. They had

stopped before the consulate in the American quarter.

"I'm leaving you here," he said.

"But--but I like you!" her small voice faltered. "Aren't you going to

explain--anything? Is this--is this all?"

Peter smothered his rising feelings under an air of important haste.

"Your way lies there"--he pointed down river. "For the present mine

lies here"--and he jerked a thumb in the general direction of

Shanghai's narrow muddy alleys.

"Shall I--won't you--gracious!" Miss Lorimer stared into her left

hand. Two one-thousand-dollar Bank of China bills were folded upon it.

She was confused. When she looked back the young man who had

miraculously delivered her from an unguessable fate had been spirited

with Oriental magic from her sight.

CHAPTER IX

The bund of Shanghai was striped with the long, purple shadows of

coming night, a night which seemed to be creeping out of the heart of

the land, ushering with it a feeling of subtle tension, as though the

touch of darkness stirred to wakefulness a populace of shadows, which

skulked and crouched and whispered, comprising an underworld of

sinister folk which the first glow of dawn would send scampering back

to a thousand evil-smelling hiding-places.

The rhythmic chant of coolies on the river ended. Mammoth go-downs,

where the products of China flowed on their way to distant countries,

became gloomily silent and empty. Handsome, tall sikhs, the police of

the city, appeared in twos and threes where only one had been stationed

before; for in China, as elsewhere, wickedness is borne on the night's

wings.

With the descent of the velvety darkness the late wireless operator of

the transpacific greyhound, the _Vandalia_, slipped out of an obscure,

shadowy doorway on Nanking Road and directed his steps toward the

glittering bund, where he was reasonably sure his enemies would have

difficulty in recognizing him.

Peter's uniform now reposed on a dark shelf in the rear of a silkshop.

He had no desire to be stabbed in the back, which was a probability in

case certain up-river men should find him. The Chinese gentleman who

conducted the silkshop was an old friend, and trustworthy.

Peter now wore the garb of a Japanese merchant. His feet were

sandaled. His straight, lithe figure was robed in an expensive gray

silk kimono. Jammed tight to his ears, in good Nipponese fashion, was

a black American derby. His eyebrows were penciled in a fairly

praiseworthy attempt to reproduce the Celestial slant, and he carried a

light bamboo cane.

Yet the ex-operator of the _Vandalia_ was not altogether sure that the

disguise was a success. If the scowling yellow face he had detected

among the throngs on the bund that morning should have followed him to

the silk-shop, of what earthly use was this silly disguise?

He padded along in the lee of a money-changer's, keeping close to the

wall. By degrees he became aware that he was followed; and he

endeavored to credit the feeling to imagination, to raw nerves. A

ghostly rickshaw flitted by. The soft chugging of the coolie's bare

feet became faint, ceased. A muttering old woman waddled past.

He looked behind him in time to see a gaunt face, lighted by the dim

glow of a shop window, bob out of sight into a doorway. Turning again

a moment later, he saw the man dive into another doorway.

Peter ran to the dark aperture, seized a muscular, satin-covered arm,

and dragged a whispering Chinese, a big, brawny fellow, into the

circular zone of the yellow street-light. Quickly recovering from his

surprise, the Chinese reached swiftly toward his belt. Peter, hoping

that only one man had been set on his trail, gave a murderous yell, and

at the same time drove his fist into a yielding paunch.

With a groan the Chinese staggered back against the shop window, caving

in a pane with his elbow. Peter raised his fist to strike again.

Then a monumental figure, with a clean turban coiled about his head,

strode austerely into the circle of yellow light.

"_Ta dzoh sh[=e]n m[=o] szi_?"

"Thief," said Moore simply, indicating the broken shop window.

"L[=a]o sh[=e]n l[=a]o sh[=e]n!" growled the sikh. He seized the

luckless window-breaker by both shoulders, backed him against an iron

trolley-post, and strapped him to it.

With a jovial, "Allah be with you!" Peter Moore continued his stroll

toward the bund. Now that the trailer was out of his way for the night

at least, he could make his way in peace to the Palace bar and find out

what might be in the wind for him.

As he crossed Nanking Road where it joined the bund, a frantic shout,

mingled with a scream of fear or of warning, impelled him to leap out

of the path of a rickshaw which was making for him at a breakneck

speed. A white face, with a slender gloved hand clutched close to the

lips, swept past.

Peter gasped in surprise quite as staggering as if the girl in the

rickshaw had slapped him across the face. He shouted after her. But

she went right on, without turning.

"Licksha?" A grinning coolie dropped the shafts of an empty rickshaw

at Peter Moore's heels.

He ceased being angry as a softer glow crept into his veins. The

rickshaw turned to the right, following the other, which occupied the

center of the almost deserted bund, and speeding like the wind.

"_Ni chue ba_!" shouted Peter Moore. The girl seemed to be headed for

the bund bridge. But why? A number of questions stormed futilely in

his brain. Why had the girl ignored him? Why had she not gone aboard

the _Manchuria_, as she had promised?

The coolie joggled along, his naked legs rising and falling

mechanically. The wireless operator drew the folds of the kimono more

closely about his throat, for the night air blowing off the Whang-poo

was chill and damp.

At the bridge the rickshaw ahead suddenly stopped, waiting. Peter

Moore drew alongside, and leaped to the ground.

The near-by street-light afforded him the information that he had made

a mistake. Undeniably similar to the girl he had sent away on the

_Manchuria_ that morning was the young lady in the rickshaw. She had

the same white, wistful face, the same alert, appealing eyes, the same

rosebud mouth. Any one might have made such a mistake. It was very

embarrassing.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

"I thought I knew you. I am sorry. I'll go at once."

"No! Wait." Her volte relented. It was a fresh young voice, not

indeed unlike that of Miss Lorimer's. She was smiling. "Why are you

dressed as a Jap?"

"I am sorry," Peter faltered, retreating. "Mistake. You're not the

girl I--I expected. _Sayonara_!"

"_Please_ don't run away," said the girl with a soft laugh. "I'm not

afraid, or I would have run, instead of waiting, when you followed me.

I've just come up from Amoy--alone. And I leave to-morrow for

Ching-Fu--alone. You're American!" she murmured. "But why the

Jap--disguise? I'm American, too. I used to live in New York, on

Riverside Drive. Oh! It must have been ages ago!"

"Why?" asked Peter unguardedly.

"I haven't met one of my countrymen in centuries! And to-morrow I go

up the river, 'way beyond Ching-Fu, beyond Szechwan!"

"Bad travelling on the river this time of the year," Peter murmured

politely. "She's out of her banks up above Ichang, I have been told."

"Yes," replied the girl sadly. "If I could only have just one evening

of fun--a dance or two, maybe--I--I--wouldn't mind half so much.

I--I----"

Peter advised himself as follows: I told you so. Aloud he said:

"I believe there's a dance at the Astor Hotel. If we can get a

table----"

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the girl. "Do--do you mind very--much?"

"Tickled to death," Peter declared amiably.

CHAPTER X

At a small round table in the end of the room over which hung the

orchestra balcony, Peter found himself in the presence of two disarming

gray eyes, which drank in every detail of his good-looking young face,

including the penciled eyebrows.

Miss Vost--Miss Amy Vost--gave him to understand that she was really

grateful for his hospitality, rushed on to assure him that it was not

customary for her to meet strange young men as she had met him, and

then frankly asked him what he was doing in China. Every time she

thought of him her curiosity seemed to trip over the Japanese kimono.

Influenced by his third glass of Japanese champagne, he almost told her

the truth. He modified it by saying that he was a wireless operator;

that he had missed his ship, and that his plans were to linger in China

for a while. He liked China. Liked China very much.

Miss Vost caressed the tip of her nose with a small, pink thumb. She

was not the kind who hesitated.

"You can do me a favor," she said, and halted.

The Philippine orchestra burst into a lilting one-step. Miss Vost

arched her eyebrows. Peter arose, and they glided off. It developed

that Miss Vost was well qualified. There was divineness in her

youthful grace; she put her heart into the dance. It seemed probable

to Peter Moore that she put her heart into everything she did.

"You spoke about my doing a favor," he suggested, glancing sternly at a

dark-eyed Eurasian girl who seemed to be trying to divert his attention.

"There is a man in Shanghai I want you to try to find for me--to-night.

Last time I saw him--this morning--he was drunk. He was the first

officer on the steamer that brought me up from Amoy. Perhaps you know

him. He's only been on the coast a short while. Before that he ran on

the Pacific Mail Line between San Francisco and Panama. His name is

MacLaurin, a nice boy. Scotch. But he drinks."

"MacLaurin? I know a man named MacLaurin--Bobbie MacLaurin."

"No!" gasped Miss Vost. "I suppose I ought to make that old remark

about what a small world it is! Do you know where Bobbie MacLaurin is?"

"No," he murmured. "Why is he drunk?"

"That is a matter," replied Miss Vost, somewhat distantly, "that I

prefer not to discuss. Will you try to find him for me? He threatened

to be--be captain of the river-boat, the _Hankow_, that I leave on

to-morrow for Ching-Fu. I'd rather like to know if he intends to carry

out his threat. Will you find out, if you can, if he is going to be

sober enough to make the trip--and let me know?" requested Miss Vost,

as the music stopped. "I'd rather he wouldn't, Mr. Moore," she added

quickly. "But I do wish _you_ were going to make the trip. I'd love

to have you!"

The ex-operator of the _Vandalia_ experienced a warm suffusion in the

vicinity of his throat. In the next breath he felt genuinely guilty.

As he looked deep into the anxious, appealing gray eyes of Miss Vost,

he cursed himself for being, or having the tendencies to be, a trifler;

and in his estimation a trifler was not far removed from the reptile

class. Yet somehow, damn it, that trip to Ching-Fu on the _Hankow_

appealed to him now as a most profitable excursion, for Ching-Fu was

only a few hundred li from Len Yang.

Something of the doughtiness of a mongoose marching into a den of

monster cobras characterized Peter Moore's intention to penetrate the

stronghold of the cinnabar king. He knew that his chances for entering

Len Yang were absurdly small. Yet the whole of the Chinese Empire was

not particularly safe for him now. The Gray Dragon had paid him the

compliment of recognizing in him an enemy. He no longer doubted

Minion's warning; the dragon of Len Yang controlled a powerful

organization. No part of China was safe. If he desired to run away

from this very actual danger in which direction could he run?

"_When menaced by danger_," runs an old Chinese proverb, "_go to the

very heart of it; there you will find safety_."

It lacked a few minutes of midnight when Peter entered the Palace bar

by the bund side. Only a few lights were burning, and the exceedingly

long teak bar--"the longest bar east of Suez"--was adorned by a few

knots of men only. Tobacco smoke was thick in the place, nearly

obscuring the doorway into the hotel lobby.

He scanned the idlers, looking for the cloth of sailormen. His quest

was ended. Bobbie MacLaurin was here, disposing of all of the imported

Scotch whiskey that came convenient to his long and muscular reach.

In a deep and sonorous voice he was pointing out to a group of

uniformed sailors, burdening his point with a club-like forefinger with

which he pounded on the edge of the teak bar, that while he rarely

drank off duty, he never drank when on. This claim Peter had reason to

know was not untrue.

The wireless operator edged his way to MacLaurin's side, and touched

his arm, making a whispered remark which the Scotchman evidently did

not comprehend. For MacLaurin wheeled on him, and bestowed upon him a

red, glassy, and hotly indignant stare.

Bobbie MacLaurin was, in the language of the sea, a whale of a man.

His head seemed unnecessarily large until you began to compare it with

his body; and his body was the despair of uniform manufacturers, who

desire above all things to make a fair percentage of profit. He was

like a living monument, two and a half hundred weight of fighting flesh

and bones, which, when all of it went into action, could better be

compared to a volcano than to a monument. Otherwise he was an

exceedingly amiable young giant.

The redness and hotness of the stare he imposed upon the friend of more

than one adventurous expedition slowly receded, leaving only the

glassiness in evidence. Bobbie fidgeted uneasily.

"Damn my hide!" he roared. "Your face is familiar! It is! It is!

Where have I seen that face before? Ah! I know now! I had a fight

with you once."

"More than once," corrected Peter Moore, grinning. "The last time was

in Panama. Remember? I tripped you up, after you knocked the wind out

of me, and you fell, clothes and all, into the Washington Hotel's

swimming tank."

"Peter Moore!" gasped Bobbie MacLaurin, and Peter Moore was smothered

in log-like arms and the fumes of considerable alcohol.

Extricating himself at length from this monstrous embrace, Peter

permitted himself to be held off at arm's length and be warmly and

loquaciously admired.

"My old side-kick of the damn old _San Felipe_!" announced Bobbie

MacLaurin to the small group of somewhat embarrassed sailors. "The

best radio man that God ever let live! He can hear a radio signal

before it's been sent. Can't you, Peter? Boys, take a long look at

the only livin' man who can fight his weight in sea serpents; the only

livin' man who ever knocked me cold, and got away with it! Boys, take

a long, lastin' look, for the pack o' you're goin' out o' that door

inside of ten counts! God bless 'um! Just look at that there Jap

get-up! Sure as God made big fish to eat the little fellows, Peter

Moore's up to some newfangled deviltry, or I'm a lobster!"

"Sh!" warned Peter Moore, conscious that in China the walls, doors,

floors, ceilings, windows, even the bartenders, have ears.

"Out with the lot of you!" barked MacLaurin. "There's big business

afoot to-night. We must be alone. Eh, Peter?"

And Peter was convinced that business could not be talked over

to-night. Of one thing only did he wish to be certain.

"You're taking the _Hankow_ up-river to-morrow?"

"That I am, Peter!"

"Then we'll take the express for Nanking to-morrow morning."

"Aye--aye! Sir!"

"We'll turn in now. Otherwise you'll look like a wreck when Miss Vost

sees you."

"Miss Vost!" exploded MacLaurin. "When did you see Miss Vost?"

"A little while ago, Bob. Shall we turn in now?"

"Miss Vost is why I'm drunk, Peter," said Bobbie MacLaurin sadly.

"So she admitted. To-morrow we'll talk her over, and other important

matters."

"As you say, Peter. I'm the brawn, but you're the brains of this

team--as always! The bunks are the order."

When Bobbie MacLaurin's not unmusical snore proceeded from the vast

bulk disposed beneath the white bedclothes, Peter Moore again descended

to the lobby, let himself into the street, and hailed a rickshaw.

The mist from the Whang-poo had changed to a slanting rain. The bund

was a ditch of clay-like mud. Each street light was a halo unto itself.

He lighted a cigarette, suffered the coolie to draw up the clammy

oilskin leg-robe to his waist, and dreamily contemplated the quagmire

that was Shanghai.

The rickshaw crossed the Soochow-Creek bridge and drew up, dripping,

under the porte-cochere of the Astor House Hotel, where a majestic

Indian door-tender emerged from the shadows, bearing a large, opened

umbrella.

Contrary to her promise Miss Vost was not waiting for his message.

However, she sent back word by the coolie, that she would dress and

come down, if he desired her to. Peter pondered a moment. A glimpse

of Miss Vost at this time of night meant nothing to him. Or was he

hungry for that glimpse? Nonsense!

He dashed off a hasty note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to

the room-boy to deliver.

He pictured her sleepy surprise as she opened it, and read:

Bobbie seems much put out. We take morning express to Nanking. Try to

make it. We'll have tea, the three of us, at Soochow.

At Soochow! There he was--at it again! A trifler.

"Damn my withered-up sense of honor, anyway!" observed Peter Moore to

himself, as he climbed into the rain-soaked rickshaw.

CHAPTER XI

With the pristine dawn, Robert MacLaurin arose from his bed like a

large, yellow mountain; for his pajamas--every square yard of

them--were of fine Canton silk, the color of the bulbous moon when it

reposes low on China's horizon.

Satisfying himself at length that the bedroom had another occupant, he

drained the contents of a fat, white water-jug, then tossed the jug

upon the incumbent of the bedroom's other bed.

At such times as this critical one, the smiling destiny which held the

fate of Peter Moore in the hollow of her precious hand was ever

watchful, and the white water-jug caromed from his peaceful figure with

no more than an unimportant thud. The jug bounded to the floor and

ended its career against the hard wall. Peter Moore sat up, rubbing

his eyes.

"Dead or alive, Peter?"

"You nearly broke my back."

"Serves you right, old slug-abed! You tucked me in last night with the

warning that we pick up the early express for Nanking."

"Quite so," admitted Peter Moore thickly. In the past two days he had

managed to set aside altogether four hours for sleep; and he felt that

way. He examined his room-mate, but was not surprised at what met his

glance.

Bobbie MacLaurin, disregarding the fact that he had not yet shaved,

looked as fresh as a rose. His endurance was like that of a range of

mountains. His sea-blue eyes were cannily clear, his complexion was

transparent and glowing. The ill effects of last night had been

absorbed with about as much apparent effort as a gigantic sponge might

display in absorbing a dewdrop.

"Chinamen's eyes and Chinamen's knives have been running through my

dreams," Peter muttered.

"Cheer up! The pirates are thick above Ichang. We'll both have our

bloody necks slit a dozen times before we make Ching-Fu." Bobbie

turned from the miniature mirror. His sea-blue eyes glared through a

white lake of lather. "Hurry up and shave, you loafer! We'll miss

that train."

"I'm not going to shave for six months!"

"Election bet?"

"When your utterly worthless life has been endangered as many times

as----"

"What you need is a drink, my lad!"

"When you have evidence that the greatest criminal-at-large wants to

have you stuck like a pig----"

MacLaurin swung his big frame about and stared. "You're not serious."

"I am referring to--a Gray Dragon. Ever hear of one?"

The razor in the large, red hand of Bobbie MacLaurin flashed. It came

away from his cheek. A broad trickle of crimson spread down the

lathered jaw, But he did not curse.

"We must hurry for that train," rumbled his big voice. "We must talk

this over. We must hurry, Peter," he said again.

Miss Amy Vost was not in evidence when the two rickshaws rattled up to

the platform of the red brick station.

"Perhaps she's waiting for us in the coach, holding seats for us,"

Peter suggested.

"Just like her," said MacLaurin. "She's a little peach!"

Peter entered the compartment first and scanned the heads. The only

tresses in evidence were the long, black, shining ones of a bejeweled

Chinese lady. The other passengers were men.

"There will be no tete-a-tete in Soochow," observed Peter Moore to his

conscience.

"I'd go to hell for that girl!" declared Bobbie MacLaurin as he sat

down at Peter's side. "Now, tell me what you were doing in that Jap

rigging. Two years, isn't it, since we were chased out of Panama City

by the _spigotties_?"

"I came over on the _Vandalia_."

"And didn't go back, I gather."

"She sailed up-river for Soo-chow yesterday. No, I won't go back.

Bobbie, I started something on that ship, and I'm on my way to

Ching-Fu--and 'way beyond Ching-Fu--to finish it."

"It will be beautifully finished, Peter! Or your name's not Moore."

"There was a girl, a beautiful girl----"

"There usually is," MacLaurin sighed.

Peter gazed bitterly at the scenery flitting evenly past the window:

groves of feathery bamboo, flaming mustard fields, exquisite gardens,

and graves--graves beyond count.

"Perhaps she is passing through the Inland Sea by now. Bobbie, I

wanted her to go home. She was--she was that kind of a girl. She

wanted to stay. Bobbie, that girl could have made a man of me!

She--she even told me she--liked me!"

"They have a way of doing that," commented Bobbie sadly.

Several miles rolled by before either of the men spoke.

"Why is Miss Vost making the trip to Ching-Fu?"

"You'll have to find that out, Peter. I was too busy letting her know

how bright my life has become since she entered it!"

The square, red jaw swung savagely toward Peter. Of a sudden the

sea-blue eyes seemed a trifle inflamed. "She's probably going to

Ching-Fu on serious business. She's like that. She's not like you!"

"What do you mean?" said Peter.

"You're going to try to break into Len Yang; that's what I mean! Some

day, on one of these reckless expeditions of yours, Peter, you're going

to run plumb into a long, sharp knife! If I could head you off, I

would."

"You can't, Bobbie. My mind is made up."

"Get out of China. Why enter the lion's den? You're too confiding,

too trusting, too young. In duty to my conscience, I oughtn't to let

you go. But I know you'd walk or fly or swim if I tried to head you

off."

"I certainly would," agreed Peter.

CHAPTER XII

No member of the earth's great brotherhood of dangerous waterways is

blessed with quite the degree of peril which menaces those hardy ones

who dare the River of the Golden Sands.

Bobbie MacLauren's steamer, the _Hankow_, was the net result of long

ship-building experience. Dozens of apparently seaworthy boats have

gone up the Yangtze-Kiang, not to return. After years of experiment a

somewhat satisfactory river-boat has been evolved. It combines the

sturdiness of a sea-going tug with the speed of a torpedo-boat

destroyer.

The _Hankow_ was ridiculously small, and monstrously strong. Chiefly

it consisted of engines and boilers. Despite their security, despite

the shipwrecks and deaths that have been poured into their present

design, Yangtze river-boats sink, a goodly crop of them, every season.

But the world of commerce is an arrogant master. There is wealth in

the land bordering the upper reaches of the river. This wealth must be

brought down to the sea, and scattered to the lands beyond the sea. In

return, machinery and tools must be carried back to mine and farm the

wealth.

Little is heard, less is told, and still less is written of the men who

dare the rapids and the rocks and the sands of the great river.

Sometimes the spirit of adventure sends them up the Yangtze.

Frequently, as is the case with men who depart unexplainedly upon

dangerous errands, a woman is the inspiration, or merely the cause.

Miss Amy Vost, of New York City, but more recently of Amoy, China,

province Fu-Kien, was the generator in the case of Bobbie MacLaurin.

When Miss Vost tripped blithely aboard the _Sunyado Maru_, anchored off

the breaks of Amoy, and captured, at first blush, the hearts of the

entire forward crew, Bobbie MacLaurin was the most eager prisoner of

the lot.

Perhaps she took notice of him out of the corner of her glowing young

eyes long before he became seriously and mortally afflicted. Certainly

the first mate of the _Sunyado Maru_ was no believer in the theory of

non-resistance.

Had Miss Vost been a susceptible young woman, it is safe to assume that

Bobbie MacLaurin would not have accepted command of the _Hankow_ from

tide-water to that remote Chinese city, Ching-Fu.

He wooed her in the pilot-house--where passengers were never allowed;

he courted her in the dining-room; and he paid marked attention to her

at all hours of the day and night, in sundry nooks and corners of the

generous promenade deck.

Miss Vost sparred with him. As well as being lovely and captivating,

she was clever. She seemed to agree with the rule of the philosopher

who held that conversation was given to mankind simply for purposes of

evasion. By the end of the first week Bobbie MacLaurin was earning

sour glances from his staid British captain, and glances not at all

encouraging from Miss Vost.

He informed her that all of the beauty and all of the wonder of the

stars, the sea, the moonlight, could not equal the splendor of her

wide, gray eyes. She replied that the moon, the stars, and the sea had

gone to his head.

He insisted that her smile could only be compared to the sunrise on a

dewy rose-vine. He threw his big, generous heart at her feet a hundred

times. Being fair and sympathetic, she did not kick it to one side.

She merely side-stepped.

He closed that evening's interview with the threat that he would follow

her to the very ends of the earth. She gave him the opportunity,

literally, by observing dryly that her destination was precisely at the

world's end--in the hills of Szechuen, to be exact.

He took the breath out of her mouth by saying that he would travel on

the same river-boat with her to Ching-Fu, if he had to scrub down decks

for his passage. She told him not to be a silly boy; that he was,

underneath his uncouthness, really a dear, but that he didn't know

women.

When the _Sunyado Maru_ dropped anchor off Woo-sung, Miss Vost let

Bobbie hold her hand an instant longer than was necessary, and

stubbornly refused to accompany him in the same sampan--or the same

tug--to the customs jetty. Summarily, she went up the Whang-poo all

alone, while Bobbie, biting his finger-nails, purposely quarreled with

the staid British captain, and was invited to sign off, which he did.

Through devious subterranean channels Bobbie MacLaurin found that the

berth of master on the _Hankow_ was vacant, the latest incumbent having

relinquished his spirit to cholera. Was he willing to assume the

tremendous responsibility? He was tremendously willing! Did he

possess good papers? He most assuredly did!

When the Shanghai express rolled into the Nanking station, Bobbie

MacLaurin climbed into a rattling rickshaw and clattered off in the

direction of the river-front, registering the profound hope that Miss

Vost had somehow managed to reach the _Hankow_ ahead of him. Peter

Moore, who knew China's ancient capital like a book, struck off in a

diagonal direction on foot.

He made his way to a Chinese tailor's, who bought from him the Japanese

costume and sold him a suit of gray tweeds, which another customer had

failed to call for. While not an adornment, the gray tweeds were

comfortably European, a relief from the flapping, clumsy kimono.

He wanted to have a little talk with Miss Vost before she saw Bobbie.

He had so much affection for Bobbie that he wanted to ask Miss Vost to

please not be unnecessarily cruel with him. He did not know that Miss

Vost was never unnecessarily cruel to any living creature; for he made

the mistake there of classifying all women into the good and the cruel,

of which Miss Vost seemed to be among the latter. As a matter of fact,

Miss Vost was simply a young woman very far from home, compelled to

believe in and on occasion to resort to primitive methods of

self-defense.

Peter took a rickshaw to the river. He picked out the _Hankow_ among

the clutter of shipping, anchored not far from shore, and out of reach

of the swift current which rushed dangerously down midchannel. Black

smoke issued from her single chubby funnel. Blue-coated coolies sped

to and fro on her single narrow deck. Bobbie MacLaurin leaned far out

across the rail as Peter's sampan slapped smartly alongside. The

coolie thrashed the water into yellowy foam.

"Have you seen Miss Vost?" shouted MacLaurin above the hiss of escaping

steam. "We pull out in an hour, Miss Vost or no Miss Vost. That's

orders."

Peter, reaching the deck, scanned the pagoda-dotted shore-front.

"She'll be here," he said.

Pu-Chang, the _Hankow's_ pilot, a slender, grayed Chinese, grown old

before his time, in the river service, sidled between them, smiling

mistily, and asked his captain if the new tow-line had been delivered.

While MacLaurin went to make inquiries, Peter watched a sampan, bow on,

floating down-stream, with the intention, evidently, of making

connections with the _Hankow's_ ladder. On her abrupt foredeck was a

slim figure of blue and white.

Startled a little by recollection, Peter leaned far out. For a moment

he had imagined the white face to be that of Eileen Lorimer. The

demure attitude of Miss Vost's hands, caught by the finger-tips before

her, gave further grounds to Peter Moore for the comparison. Her youth

and innocence had as much to do with it as anything, for there was

undeniably an air of youth and extreme innocence about Miss Vost.

Something in the shape of a triumphant bellow was roared from the

engine-room companionway. Whereupon the companionway disgorged the

monumental figure of Bobbie MacLaurin, grinning like a schoolboy at his

first party. He seized Miss Vost by both hands, swinging her neatly to

the deck.

She panted and fell back against the rail, holding her hand to her

heart, and welcoming Bobbie MacLaurin by a glance that was not entirely

cordial.

"The sampan boy hasn't been paid," she remarked, opening her purse.

"It's twenty cents."

While MacLaurin pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and spun it to

the anxious coolie, Miss Vost turned with the warmest of smiles to

Peter. Rarely had any girl seemed more delighted to see him, for

which, under the circumstances, he found it somewhat difficult to be

grateful.

He experienced again that dull feeling of guilt. He felt that she

ought to show more cordiality to Bobbie MacLaurin. Here was Bobbie,

trailing after her like a faithful dog, on the most hazardous trip that

any man could devise, and he had not been rewarded, so far, with even

the stingiest of smiles.

Women were like that. They took the fruits of your work, or they took

your life, or let you toss it to the crows, without a sign of

gratitude. At least, _some_ women were like that. He had hoped Miss

Vost was not that kind. He had hoped----

Miss Vost laid her small, warm hand in his, and she seemed perfectly

willing to let it linger. Her lips were parted in a smile that was all

but a caress. She seemed to have forgotten that the baffled young man

who stared so fixedly at the back of her pretty, white neck existed.

It was quite embarrassing for Peter. The feeling of the little hand,

that lay so intimately within his, sent a warm glow stealing into his

guilty heart.

Then, aware of the pain in the face of Bobbie MacLaurin, a face that

had abruptly gone white, and realizing his duty to this true friend of

his, he pushed Miss Vost's hands away from him.

That gesture served to bring them all back to earth.

"Aren't you glad--aren't you a little bit glad--to see me--me?" said

the hurt voice of Bobbie MacLaurin.

Miss Vost pivoted gracefully, giving Peter Moore a view of her

splendid, straight back for a change. "Of course I am, Bobbie!" she

exclaimed. "I'm always glad to see you. Why--oh, look! Did you ever

see such a Chinaman?"

They all joined in her look. A salmon-colored sampan was riding

swiftly to the _Hankow's_ riveted steel side. With long legs spread

wide apart atop the low cabin stood a very tall, very grave Chinese.

His long, blanched face was more than grave, more than austere.

Peter Moore stared and ransacked his memory. He had seen that face,

that grimace, before. His mind went back to the shop front, on Nanking

Road, last evening, when he was skulking toward the bund from the

friendly establishment of his friend, the silk merchant, Ching Gow Ong.

This man was neither Cantonese nor Pekingese. His long, rather

supercilious face, his aquiline nose, the flare of his nostrils, the

back-tilted head, the high, narrow brow, and the shock of blue-black

hair identified the Chinese stranger, even if his abnormal, rangy

height were not taken into consideration, as a hill man, perhaps

Tibetan, perhaps Mongolian. Certainly he was no river-man.

It seemed improbable that the window-breaker could have been released

by the heartless Shanghai police so quickly; yet out of his own

adventurous past Peter could recall more than one occasion when

"squeeze" had saved him embarrassment.

There was no constraint in the pose of the man on the sampan's flat

roof. With indifference his narrow gaze flitted from the face of

Bobbie MacLaurin to that of Miss Vost, and wandered on to the stern,

sharp-eyed visage of Peter Moore.

Here the casual gaze rested. If he recognized Peter Moore, he gave no

indication of it. He studied Peter's countenance with the look of one

whose interest may be distracted on the slightest provocation.

An intelligent and wary student of human nature, Peter dropped his eyes

to the man's long, claw-like fingers. These were twitching ever so

slightly, plucking slowly--it may have been meditatively--at the hem of

his black silk coat. At the intentness of Peter's stare, this

twitching abruptly ceased.

The sampan whacked alongside. The big man tossed a small, orange-silk

bag to the deck. He climbed the ladder as if he had been used to

climbing all his life.

"I don't care for his looks," remarked Miss Vost, looking up into

Peter's face with a curious smile.

"Nor I," said Bobbie MacLaurin.

The richly dressed stranger vaulted nimbly over the teak-rail,

recovered the orange bag, and approached MacLaurin. His head drooped

forward momentarily, in recognition of the authority of the blue

uniform.

He said in excellent English: "I desire to engage passage to Ching-Fu."

"This way," replied the _Hankow's_ captain.

"You seemed to recognize him," said Miss Vost to Peter, when they had

the deck to themselves.

"Perhaps I was mistaken," replied Peter evasively. He suddenly was

aware of Miss Vost's wide-eyed look of concern.

Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She had come up very close

to him. Her head moved back, so that her chin was almost on a level

with his.

"Mr. Moore," she said in a low, soft voice, "I won't ask you any

questions. In China, there are many, many things that a woman must not

try to understand. But I--I want to tell you that--that I think you

are--splendid. It seems so fine, so good of you. I--I can't begin to

thank you. My--my feelings prevent it."

"But--why--what--what----" stammered Peter.

"Oh, Mr. Moore, I know--I know!" Miss Vost proceeded earnestly. "Like

all fine, brave men, you are--you are modest! It--it almost makes me

want to cry, to think--to think----"

"But, Miss Vost," interrupted Peter, gently and gravely, "you are

shooting over my head!"

In the rakish bows of the _Hankow_ arose the clank and clatter of wet

anchor-chains. A bell tinkled in the engine-room. The stout fabric of

the little steamer shuddered. The yellow water began to slip by them.

On the shore two pagodas moved slowly into alignment. The _Hankow_ was

moving.

Miss Vost strengthened her gentle hold upon Peter's reluctant arm. Her

bright eyes were a trifle blurred. "Last night, when we met on the

bund," she went on in a small voice, "I knew

immediately--immediately--what you were. A chivalrous gentleman! A

man who would shelter and protect any helpless woman he met!"

"That was nice of you," murmured Peter.

Like Saul of Tarsus, he was beginning to see a bright light.

"And it was true!" Miss Vost plunged on. "Now--now, you are risking

your life--for poor, unworthy little me! Please don't deny it, Mr.

Moore! I only wanted to let you know that I--I understand, and that I

am--g-grateful!" Her eyelids fluttered over an unstifled moistness.

"Bobbie _loves_ you," blurted Peter. "He'd do anything in the world

for you. He told me so. He told me----"

Miss Vost opened her eyes on a look that was hurt and humiliated.

"What?"

"He'd go to hell for you!"

"He's an overgrown boy. He doesn't know what he says. That's

nonsense," declared Miss Vost, looking away from Peter. "I know his

type, Mr. Moore. He falls in love with every pretty face; and he falls

out again, quite as easily."

"You don't know Bobbie, the way I do," said Peter stubbornly.

"I don't have to. I know his kind--a girl in every port."

"No, no. Not Bobbie!"

For a moment it seemed that they had come to an _impasse_. Miss Vost

was blinking her eyes rapidly, appearing to be somewhat interested in a

junk which was poling down-stream.

She looked up with a wan smile. Tears were again in her eyes. "Mr.

Moore," she said in a broken voice, "what you've told me about Mr.

MacLaurin, Captain MacLaurin, moves me--deeply!"

"Do try to be nice to Bobbie," begged Peter. "He is the finest fellow

I know. He is true blue. He would give his life for your little

finger. Really he would, Miss Vost!"

The bright eyes gave him a languishing look.

"I'll try," she said simply.

That night the banks of the great river were gray and mysterious under

the effulgence of a top-heavy yellow moon. The search-light on the

peak pierced out the fact that a low, swirling mist was creeping up

from the river's dulled surface.

The air was damp with the breath of the land. Occasionally the gentle

puffs of the wind bore along the water the flavor of queer,

indistinguishable odors.

Elbow to elbow, glancing down at the hissing water, Miss Vost and Peter

stood for a number of sweet, meditative moments in silence. At length

Miss Vost slipped her arm through his.

"Sometimes," she murmured, inclining her head until it almost rested

against his shoulder, "I feel lonely--terrible! Especially on such a

night as this. The moon is so impersonal, isn't it? Here it is, a

great, gorgeous ball of cold fire, shining across China at you and me.

In Amoy it seemed to frown at me. Now--it seems to smile. The same

moon!"

"The same moon!" whispered Peter as her warm hand slipped down and

snuggled in his.

"Don't _you_ ever feel lonely--like this?" demanded Miss Vost suddenly.

Peter sighed. "Oh, often. Often! The world seems so big, and so

filled with things that are hard to learn. Especially at night!" He

wondered what she thought he meant.

"I--I feel that way," Miss Vost's absorbed voice replied. "I try--and

try--to reason these things out. But they are so baffling! So

elusive! So evasive! Here is China, with its millions of poor

wretched ones, struggling in darkness and disease. There are so many!

And they are so hard to help. And out beyond there, not so many miles

beyond that ridge, lies Tibet, with her millions, and her ignorance,

and her disease. And to the left--away to the left, I think, is India.

"If a person would be happy, he must not come to China or India. Their

problems are too overwhelming. You cannot think of solutions fast

enough, and even while you think, you are overcome by the weariness,

the hopelessness, of it all. I wish I had never come to China.

"I happened to be in Foo-Chow not long ago. There is in Foo-Chow a

thing that illustrates what I mean. It is called the baby tower.

Girls, you know, aren't thought much of in China. At the bottom of the

tower is a deep well. Women to whom are born baby girls go to the baby

tower----" Miss Vost shuddered. "The babies are thrown into the well.

I have seen them. Poor--poor, little creatures--dying like that!"

Miss Vost sniffled for a moment. Brightly she said:

"I like to talk to you, Mr. Moore. You're so--so sympathetic!"

A great, dark shadow bulked up against the rail alongside Peter.

"Good evening, folks!" declared the pleasant bass voice of Bobbie

MacLaurin.

"We were just talking about you, Bobbie," said Peter affably. "As I

was telling Miss Vost, you're the most sympathetic man I ever knew!

Good night, Miss Vost. Night, Bobs!"

CHAPTER XIII

When Peter descended the stairway into the narrow vestibule which

served as reception-hall, dining-saloon, and, incidentally, as the

corridor from which the _Hankow's_ four small staterooms were entered,

he had the chilly feeling that the darkness had eyes.

Yet he saw nothing. The cabin was dark. Three round ports glimmered

greenly beyond the staircase on the cabin's forward side. The glimmer

was occasioned by the refracted rays of the _Hankow's_ dazzling

searchlight. But these were not the ones he felt.

Gradually his own eyes became accustomed to the pulp-like darkness. He

steadied his body against the gentle swaying of the steamer, and

endeavored to listen above, or through, the imminent thrashing and

clattering of the huge engine.

He examined the four stateroom doors anxiously. As the darkness began

to dissolve slightly, Peter, still conscious that eyes were fastened

upon him, made the discovery that the stateroom adjoining his was

slightly ajar. The moon favored him--Miss Vost's impersonal moon. It

outlined against the slit what appeared to be a large, irregular block.

Peter decided that the irregular block was nothing more nor less than

the head of a man. To prove that his surmise was correct, Peter

quickly shifted the revolver from his right hand to his left, brought

it even with his eyes and--struck a match.

In the startling flare of the phosphorus the evil glint of Celestial

eyes was instantly revealed in the partly opened door.

With incredible softness the door was closed. Where there had been

half-lidded eyes, a positive snarl, and a shock of blue-black hair was

now a white-enameled panel.

Peter continued to smile along the barrel, which glistened in the dying

flame of the match. He unlocked his door, closed it, and shot the

bolt. Switching on the electric light, he cautiously drew back the

sheet. Apparently satisfied, he sniffed the air. It was nothing more

than stuffy, as a stateroom that has been closed for a week or so is

apt to be.

Unscrewing the fat wingbolts which clamped down the brass-bound

port-glass, he let in a breath of misty river air. Simultaneously

voices came into the room.

Miss Vost and Bobbie MacLaurin were conversing in clear, tense

syllables. Peter could not help eavesdropping. They were standing on

the deck, directly over his stateroom, only a few scant feet from his

porthole, which was situated much nearer the deck than the surging

water.

"But I do--I do love you!" Bobbie was complaining in his rumbling

voice. "Ever since you set foot on the old _Sunyado Maru_ I've been

your shadow--your slave! What more can any man say?" he added bitterly.

"Not a great deal," rejoined Miss Vost lightheartedly. She became

abruptly serious. "Bobbie, I do like you. I admire you--ever so much.

But it happens that you are not the man for me. You don't understand

me. You can never understand me. Don't you realize it? You're too

sudden--too brutal--too----"

"Brutal! I've treated you like a flower. I want to shield you----"

"But I don't _need_ shielding, Bobbie. I'm prudent, fearless,

and--twenty-two. I don't need a watch-dog!"

"Good God, who said anything about being a watchdog?" exclaimed Bobbie.

"I--I just want----"

"You just want me," completed Miss Vost. "Well, you can't have me."

"You love somebody else, then. That young pup!"

Peter stared sourly at the bilious moon.

"Don't you dare call him a young pup, Robert MacLaurin," retorted Miss

Vost resentfully. "He is a fine young man. I admire him and I respect

him very, _very_ much."

"He can't fool around any girl of mine!"

Peter heard Bobbie sucking the breath in between his teeth, as if he

might have pricked himself with a pin. Bobbie had done worse than that.

"A girl of _yours_!" snapped Miss Vost.

Followed low, anxious and imploratory whispers. These were terminated

by a long, light, and delicious laugh.

"Bobbie, you're so _funny_!" Miss Vost gurgled.

"I wish I was dead!" declared Bobbie despondently.

"You should go to Liauchow," Miss Vost chirped.

"_Why_ should _I_ go to Liauchow?" grumbled the bass voice.

"To be happy, you must be born in Soochow, live in Canton and die in

Liauchow. So runs the proverb."

"Why should I go to Liauchow?" persisted Bobbie.

"Because Soochow has the handsomest people, Canton the most luxury, and

Liauchow the best coffins!"

CHAPTER XIV

Peter Moore's curiosity regarding the motives which were sending Miss

Amy Vost into Szechwan, most deplorable, most poverty-stricken of

provinces, was satisfied before the _Hankow_ had put astern the great

turbulent city after which it had been named.

At Hankow the _Hankow_ picked up the raft which it would tow all the

way up to Ching-Fu. Upon this raft was a long, squat cabin, in and out

of which poured incessantly members of China's large and growing family.

There were thin, dirty little men, and skinny, soiled little women, and

quantities of hungry, dirty little boys and girls. A great noise went

up from the raft as the _Hankow_ nosed in alongside, and the new

towline was passed and made fast over the bitts.

As the big propeller thumped under them and churned the muddy water

into unhealthy-looking foam, Peter Moore and Miss Vost leaned upon the

rail, where it curved around the fantail, and discoursed at length,

speculating upon the probable destination of that raftful of dirty

humanity, and offering problematic answers to the puzzling question as

to why were all these people deserting relatively prosperous Hankow for

the over-populated, overdeveloped province of Szechwan.

Peter had an inkling that Miss Vost was distressed by the scene.

"Let's take a stroll forward," he suggested.

An urchin, directly below them, stood rubbing his eyes with two grimy

fists. His whines were audible above the churning of the engines.

"No, no. I'm quite accustomed to this. Look--just look at that

miserable little fellow!"

"He is blind," stated Peter quietly.

"Half of them are blind," Miss Vost replied. Her features were

transfixed by a look of sadness. "Wait for me. I'll return in a

second."

Peter watched the graceful swing of her shoulders as she strode down

the deck to the forward companionway, admiring the slim strength of her

silk-clad ankles. She was every inch an American girl. He was proud

of her. She returned, carrying a small oblong of cardboard, upon which

a photograph was pasted.

Peter found himself looking into the sad, be-wrinkled eyes of a

gray-bearded man, a patriarchal gentleman, who stood on the hard clay

at the foot of a low stone stairway. His nose, his eyes, his

intellectual forehead were distinctly those of Miss Vost. A child in a

freshly starched frock, with eyes opened wide in surprise and interest,

was firmly clutching one of his trouser-legs.

"My father," explained Miss Vost. "He was stationed at Wenchow then,

in charge of the mission. I have not seen him since."

Peter remarked to himself that somehow Miss Vost did not seem to be the

daughter of a missionary, nor was the costly way she dressed in key

with her remark. Perhaps she divined his thoughts.

"He has money--lots of it. He has a keen, broad mind. But he chose

this. When he was first married be brought mother to China. He saw,

and realized, China's vast problems. And he stayed. He wanted to

help."

Peter gazed into her gray eyes, which seemed to take on a clear violet

tinge when she was deeply moved.

"He told me to come to see him because he was growing old. I stopped

off in Amoy," said Miss Vost with a ghost of a smile. "A young

missionary he wanted me to meet lives there. I met him. But I could

not admire that young missionary. He was a--a _poseur_. He was

pretending. One reason I like you, Mr. Moore, is because you're so

sincere. He was so transparent. And his 'converts' saw through him,

too. They were bread-and-butter converts. They listened to him; they

devoured his food--then they went to the fortune-tellers! Father could

not have known Doctor Sanborn longer than a few minutes--or else he's

not the father that he used to be! I inherit his love for sincerity.

I--I'm sure he will like you!"

"But--but----" stammered Peter--"I don't expect to go to Wenchow.

Better say he'd like--Bobbie!"

"Oh, he'd like anybody that I liked," Miss Vost said lightly.

"It--it's really interesting, you know, from Ching-Fu to Wenchow. We

take bullock carts--if we can find them. Otherwise we walk. Doesn't

it--appeal to you--just a little--to be all alone with me for nearly a

hundred miles?"

"Very much indeed," replied Peter earnestly. "But our roads part--at

Ching-Fu. I go directly south."

"In search of more adventure and romance? Perhaps--perhaps a girl who

is not so silly as I have been? Or--is it India--or Afghanistan?"

"Neither. An old friend!"

"Is that why you are growing a beard--to surprise--_him_?"

"Perhaps," said Peter, absently fingering the bristles. "Don't tell me

it's unbecoming or I'll have to shave it off!"

"As if what I thought made a particle of difference!" retorted Miss

Vost defiantly.

Peter gave her a thoughtful, a puzzled stare. "I overheard you last

night. You broke your promise. You promised to be nice to him."

"I was. Do you mean what I said about Liauchow?"

"You don't realize what you _mean_ to Bobbie. My dear, dear girl----"

"I am not your dear, dear girl!"

Peter groaned.

"Does your heart ache, too, Peter?"

"Of course it does! I--I'd like----"

"Then why don't you?"

"It wouldn't be fair, that's why!"

"To--Bobbie?"

"Bobbie, too."

"Then there _is_ another girl," Miss Vost cried bitterly. She bit her

lip. "You should have told me before."

"I thought it wouldn't be necessary."

Miss Vost dropped her eyes to Peter's hand which was resting on the

rail. Her own hand moved over and nestled against it.

"Do--do you l-love her as much as th-this?" Her eyes returned to his

face.

"I did think I did!"

"But you're not sure--now?"

"Oh, I thought I was sure! I _am_ sure'"

"There's little more to say, then, is there?" Her lids were blinking

rapidly as she looked down at the mob of filthy little Arabs on the

flat. Her fingers plucked, trembling, at the embroidered hem of a

white, wadded handkerchief.

"Bobbie _does_ care for you so," observed Peter with unintentional

cruelty.

"Oh--oh--_him_!" sobbed Miss Vost, leaving him to stare after her

drooping figure as she retreated down the deck.

She seemed on a sudden to be avoiding the entrance to the forward

companionway. He wondered why.

The girl stopped, with her hands clenched into white fists at her sides.

From the doorway, smiling suavely and wiping one hand upon the other in

a gesture of solicitous meekness, emerged the tall and commanding

figure of the Mongolian--or was he a Tibetan? He was attired now in

the finest, the shiniest of Canton silks. His satin pants, of a

gorgeous white, a _courting_ white, were strapped about ankles which

terminated in curved sandals sparkling with gold and jewels in the

mid-day sun. His jacket, long and perfectly fitting, was of a robin's

egg blue. His blue-black queue, freshly oiled, gleamed like the coils

of an active hill snake.

He was a picture of refined Chinese saturninity.

Miss Vost, beholding him, was properly impressed. She stepped back,

not a little appalled, and swept him from queue to sandal with a look

that was not the heartiest of receptions. The Mongolian was speaking

in oiled, pleasing accents.

Peter strode toward them.

"He insulted me!" panted Miss Vost. "Like many fine, Chinese

gentlemen, he thought, perhaps, that I might be--what do they call

'em--a 'nice li'l 'Melican girl!' Impress him with the fact that I am

not, Mr. Moore--please do that!"

She hastened around the forward cabin, out of sight.

The Mongolian was regarding Peter with a cool, complacent smile. His

expression was smug, uninjured.

"Looka here, Chink-a-link," Peter advised him, "my no savvy you; you no

savvy my. My see you allatime. Allatime. You savvy, Chink-a-link?"

"I comprehend you, my friend," replied the Mongolian in polished

accents. "In my case, 'pidgin' is not, let me hasten to say,

necessary."

"Very good, Chink; the next time you so much as glance in Miss Vost's

direction, you're going to walk away with a pair of the dam'dest black

eyes in China! Get that--you yellow weasel?"

"Unfortunately," replied the Mongolian, lifting his fine, black

eyebrows only a trifle, "your suggestion--your admonitions--are again,

most inappropriate. Miss Vost--do I pronounce it correctly? Miss Vost

and yourself are the victims of a misunderstanding."

"Take off your coat, and prove I'm wrong!" shouted Peter. "I'm a

better man than you are! Swallow it or--fight!"

Peter's gray tweed coat flopped in a heap upon the ironwood deck.

The Mongolian retired a few feet, with indications of anxiety.

"I--I did not intend to offend her," he retracted. His ropy throat

muscles seemed to convulse. His long face flamed hotly red. He burst

out, as though unable to control himself: "My savvy allatime you no

savvy! _Ni buh yao t[=i] na go hwa! Djan go chue, rang o dzou!_"

"_Lao-shu_," laughed Peter. "_Dang hsin!_"

CHAPTER XV

They came to Ichang next noon. Peter was on deck watching the somewhat

hazardous procedure of transferring large grass-bound cases of tools

from a tidewater steamer to the stern of the flat when he saw the

Mongolian emerge from the companionway and walk to the rail, forward.

Peter gave him a full stare, but the man did not glance in his

direction. He was looking down at the muddy river, and beckoning.

Peter observed a sampan coolie give an answering wave, and the sampan

sidled alongside the flat.

The Mongolian returned a few minutes before the _Hankow_ hauled in her

anchor. He retired to his stateroom and stayed there until late

afternoon.

The river above Ichang was swifter, more dangerous, than in its lower

course. Except for the junks and an occasional sampan, the _Hankow_

had the stream to herself. The yellow waters were tinged with red,

dancing and sparkling to a fresh breeze under a fair blue sky. Great

blue hills confined the swollen current. This was not the Yangtze of

yesterday. It was a maddened millrace, gorged by the mountain rains.

Even the gurgle under the sharp-cut waters seemed to convey a menace.

Dikes were broken down. The brown waters had flowed out to right and

left, forming quiet lakes where there had been fields of paddy and

wheat. The junks from up-river were having a strenuous time of it.

Swarms of gibbering coolies manned the long sweeps, striving above all

to keep their clumsy craft in safe mid-current.

They were passing a long row of pyramids, green, brown and red. But

Miss Vost was staring along the deck.

"The Mongolian!" she muttered. "How he is grinning at you!"

The Mongolian had come upon them, apparently unintentionally. He

hesitated and paused when Peter looked up. Peter saw no grin upon his

lips. They were set in a firm, straight line. His long arms were

folded behind his back, and his eyes were empty of mirth--or malice.

They simply expressed nothing. He looked at Peter shortly, and favored

Miss Vost with a long stare.

Her eyes faltered. Peter stepped forward.

But the Mongolian bowed, passed them at a slow, meditative walk, and

was lost from their sight behind the cabin's port side.

The idea took hold of Peter that the stalker had become the killer.

There was a telegraph station at Ichang through which ran the frail

copper wires connecting the seventy millions of Szechwan Province with

civilization. Had it been possible for the Mongolian to signal his

master in Len Yang and receive an answer while the _Hankow_ lay at

Ichang?

After dinner, curious and nervous, Peter went below. The light was

burning over the table of weapons in the main cabin.

The Mongolian's door was slightly ajar, and as Peter descended the

stairs, the door closed.

He waited. His heart thumped, louder than the thump of the laboring

engine. He walked to his stateroom, opened the door, kicked the

threshold, and--slammed the door! He hastened to the table, and hid

behind it. Between the table legs he had a splendid view of both doors.

Holding a kris, point down, in front of him, the Mongolian slipped out,

tried the adjacent door-knob and entered Peter's room. When he came

out, he looked perplexed and angry. He slid the dagger into his silk

blouse and looked up the stairway, listening.

His expression of rage passed away; now his look was inscrutable.

Stealing across the vestibule, he approached Miss Vost's door, and

rapped.

Peter ran his fingers along the edge of the table until they

encountered the hilt of a cutlass. He waited.

The Mongolian rapped a little louder. There was no answer. Again he

knocked, imperatively. Peter heard Miss Vost's sleepy voice pitched in

inquiry. Her door opened an inch or two.

The Mongolian forced his way inside!

Miss Vost uttered a short, sharp scream, which was instantly smothered.

As Peter burst into the room, the Mongolian turned with a snarl,

reaching for his silk blouse. Peter clapped his free hand to the

muscled shoulder, and dragged him into the corridor.

Miss Vost, in a long, white nightgown, was framed in the doorway,

staring sleepily. Her hand was clutched to her lips. Her hair tumbled

about her bare shoulders in dark, silky clusters.

Bright steel flashed in the Mongolian's hand. "_Ha-li!_" he muttered.

Peter braced himself, and thrust straight upward, striking with fury.

He drove the sword through the Mongolian's right eye.

Miss Vost, a slender pillar of white, stared down at the floundering

heap. She seemed to be going mad, with the green light of the electric

glittering in her distended eyes.

Bobbie MacLaurin bounded down the steps.

"He tried to come into my room," said Miss-Vost. "He tried to come

into my room!"

"I know. I know. But it's all right," soothed Peter, panting. "You

must go back to bed. You must try to sleep." He talked as though she

were a child. "He was a bad man. He had to--to be treated--this way!"

"You--you look like an Arab. The dark. And that beard. Where is

Bobbie?"

"Right here. Right here beside you!"

"You're not hurt--either of you? You're both all right?"

"Yes. Yes. _Please_ go to bed!" begged Peter.

"Please!" implored Bobbie.

To them there was something unreligious, something terrible, in the

notion of Miss Vost standing in the presence of the grim black heap in

the shadow. Nor were her youth and her innocence intended to be bared

before the eyes of men in this fashion.

As if a chill river wind had struck her, she shivered--closed the door.

The men carried the limp body, which was unaccountably heavy, to the

deck. After a minute there--was a splash. The _Hankow_ had not been

checked. On the Yangtze formal burial ceremonies are seldom performed.

Peter went to bed at once. He tried to sleep. He counted the

revolutions of the propeller. He added up a stupendous number of sheep

going through a hole in a stone wall. Every so often the sheep faded

away, to be replaced by the fearful countenance of the Mongolian, who

was now perhaps ten miles or more downstream.

After a while the engines were checked, turning at half speed for a

number of revolutions, then ceasing as a bell rang. The only sound was

the soughing gurgle of the water as it lapped along the steel plates,

and the distant drone of the rapids.

He heard the splash of an anchor, accompanied by the rumble and clank

of chains, forward; and a repetition of the sounds aft. Directly under

him, it seemed a loud, prolonged scraping noise took place. The fires

were being drawn.

The sounds could only mean that the _Hankow_ had reached the journey's

end. The trip was over; the _Hankow_ was abreast Ching-Fu. She would

lie in the current for a few days, before facing about and making for

tidewater.

To-day would see the last of Miss Vost, a termination of that

serio-humorous love affair of theirs, which, on the whole, had been one

of his most delightful experiences. He wondered whether or not she

would ask him to kiss her good-bye. He rather hoped she would.

On the other hand, he hoped she would do nothing of the kind. Distance

was lending enchantment to Eileen Lorimer. He was sure this was not

infatuation. She was not the first; he had had affairs; oh, numbers of

them! But they were mere fragments of his adventurous life. They were

milestones, shadowy and vague and very far away now. Dear little

milestones, each of them!

Sometime he would go to Eileen, and get down on his knees before her in

humility, and ask her if she could overlook his systematic and hardened

faults! When would he do this? Frankly, he did not know.

He dozed off, and it seemed only an instant later when he was awakened

by a harsh cry.

The port-hole was still dark. Morning was a long way off.

The cry was repeated, was joined by others, excited and fearful.

Peter sat up in bed, and was instantly thrown back by a sudden lurch.

Next came a dull booming and banging. The stateroom was filled with

the hot, sweet smell of smoking wood, the smell that is caused by the

friction of wood against wood, or wood against steel.

Another pounding and booming. Some one hammered at the door. Peter

tried to turn on the electric light. There was no current. He opened

the door.

Bobbie, shoeless and collarless, dressed only in pants and shirt,

towered over the light of a candle which he held in a hand that shook.

"A collision! Junk rammed us! Get up quick! Don't know damage. Call

Miss Vost! Get on deck! Take care of her! My hands filled with this

dam' boat."

Peter snatched his clothes, and before he was out of his pajamas the

_Hankow_ began to keel over. It slid down, until the port-hole dipped

into the muddy current. Water slopped in and drenched his knees and

feet.

He yanked open the door, not stopping to lace his shoes, and called

Miss Vost. She had heard the excitement, and was dressing. The floor

lurched again, and he was thrown violently against a sharp-edged post.

Miss Vost's door was flung open, and she stumbled down the sloping

floor, bracing her hands against his chest to catch herself.

"We're sinking," she said without fear.

To Peter it was evident that Miss Vost had never been through the

capsizing of a ship before. He fancied he caught a thrill of eager,

almost exultant, excitement in her voice. In that vestibule, he knew

they were rats in a water-trap, or soon would be.

He still felt weak and limp from his fall against the post, and he was

trying hard to regain his strength before they began their perilous

ascent to the deck.

Miss Vost misunderstood his hesitancy.

"I am not afraid, not a bit!" she declared, holding with both hands the

folds of his unbuttoned shirt. "I am never afraid with _you_! When I

am in danger, you--you are always near. It--it seems that you were put

here to--to look after me. But there is no danger--is there?" She

shook him almost playfully.

"Cut out your babbling," he snapped. "Get to that stairway!"

He heard the breath hiss in between her teeth. But she clung to his

arm obediently. They sprawled and slipped in the darkness to the

stairs. Clinging to the railing, they reached the deck, which was

inclined so steeply that they clung to the cabin-rail for support.

In the dark on all sides of them coolies shouted in high-pitched

voices. Heavy rain was falling, drumming on the deck. The odor of

wood rubbing against steel persisted. They could see nothing. The

world was dark, and filled with contusion.

A sharp explosion took place in the bows. Chains screamed through the

air and clanged on metal and wood. One of the forward anchor-chains

had parted.

The deck was tilted again. Bobbie MacLaurin was not in evidence.

Peter shouted for him until he was hoarse. Then he left Miss Vost and

groped his way to the starboard davits. The starboard life-boat was

gone!

Suddenly the rain ceased. A dull red glow smouldered on the eastern

heaven.

Miss Vost was praying, praying for courage, for help. She clung to

him, and sobbed. By and by her nerves seemed to steady themselves.

There was nothing to do but wait for daylight--and pray that the

gurgling waters might not rise any higher.

The glow in the east increased, and permitted them to see the vague

outlines of a looming shape which seemed to grow out of the bows. As

dawn came, Peter made out the form of a huge junk, which had pinioned

and crushed the foredeck rail under her brawny poop.

Then the remaining anchor-cable snapped like a rotten thread. Dimly

they saw the end of the chain whip upward and crash down. A coolie,

paralyzed, stood in its way. The broken end struck him in the face.

He screamed and rolled down the deck until he lodged against the rail.

Bobbie shouted their names, and scrambled and slipped down.

"We're trying to get up steam. Our only chance. Both forward anchors

gone. We'll swing around with the current and lose this damn junk. If

the after anchor holds till steam's up--we're safe!" He sped aft.

The steamer shuddered, and they felt her swinging as the scattered

shore lights moved from left to right. The junk was acting as a drag.

The shore lights became stationary. A gang of coolies with grate bars

were trying to pry up the junk's coamings.

Peter was aware then that Miss Vost's arms were clinging about his

neck, and that she was whimpering softly in his ear.

Up-river boomed another explosion. The deck seemed to fall from under

his feet. Water splashed up over his toes. In the gold-speckled dawn

he could see the waters foaming and swirling, and rising higher.

He knew it was suicide to swim the Yangtze rapids, knew the whirlpools

which sucked a man down and held him down until his body was torn to

shreds. There was no alternative. And the water was now half-way to

his knees. He dragged the unresisting girl to the rail.

"Can you swim--at all?"

"A--a little," she chattered.

"Hold to my collar and swim with one hand. Only try to keep afloat."

They slipped into the racing current, were seized, and spun around and

around. Above the drone of the waters he heard the roar of a

whirlpool, coming rapidly nearer. The firm clutch of Miss Vost's hand

on his collar was not loosened. Occasionally he heard her gasp and

sputter as a wave washed over her face.

They were swept down. On they went, spinning, snatched from one eddy

to another. The roar of the whirlpool receded, became a low growl and

mutter.

Now they could see the churning surface covered with torn bits of

wreckage. A body, bloated and discolored, spun by, and was caught and

dragged under, leaving only an indescribable stench.

After a while the northern shore, a low, brown bank, crept out toward

them, like a long, merciful arm. In another minute Peter's bare feet

came in contact with slimy, yielding mud. They were in shoal water!

He picked up Miss Vost in his arms, and carried her ashore; and she

clung to him, shivering and moaning. He did not realize until

afterward that she was kissing him over and over again on his wet lips

and cheeks.

Coolies found them, and carried them to a village, and deposited them

in a little red clay compound behind a building of straw. A bonfire

was kindled. The sun came up, a disk that might have been cut out of

red tissue-paper.

Some time later a tall man came into the clearing with a little group

of coolies who were pointing out the way. A white patriarchal beard

extended nearly to his waist.

He saw Miss Vost and shouted. She leaped up, was enfolded in his arms.

Peter stared at them a moment with a look that was somewhat dazed. He

picked himself up, and skulked out of the compound, in the direction of

the foaming river.

His mind was not in a normal state just then, or he would not have

wanted to cross to Ching-Fu in a sampan. But he did want to cross. In

the back of his brain foolish words were urging him: "You must get to

Ching-Fu. You must go on to Len Yang. Hurry! Hurry!"

He had no money. A box filled with perforated Szechwan coins now lay

at the bottom of the river in what was left of the _Hankow_.

Nevertheless, he hailed a sampan as though his pockets were weighted

down with lumps of purest silver.

The boat leaked in dozens of places. The paddle, scarred and battered,

clung to the stern by means of a rotting leather thong. As Peter

looked and hesitated, a long, imperative cry issued from behind him.

Possibly Miss Vost wanted him to return.

The coolie stipulated his price, and Peter stepped aboard without a

murmur, without looking around, either. The crossing was precarious.

They skirted the edge of more than one whirl; they were caught and

tossed about in waves as large as houses. Peter kept his eye on the

rotting thong, and marveled because it actually held.

Deposited on the edge of Ching-Fu's bund, he confessed his poverty, and

offered his shirt in payment. The shirt was of fine golden silk, woven

in the Chinan-Fu mills. For more than a year it had worn like iron,

and it had more than an even chance of continuing to do so.

Peter stripped off the shirt before a mob of squealing children, and

the coolie scrutinized it. He accepted it, and blessed Peter, and

Peter's virtuous mother, and called upon his green-eyed gods to make

the days of Peter long and filled with the rice of the land.

CHAPTER XVI

With the coming of noon Peter sat down under a stunted cembra pine tree

and contemplated the distant rocky blue ridge with a wistful and

discouraged air. He removed from his trouser-pocket two yellow loquats

and devoured them.

He was dreadfully hungry. His stomach fathered a dull, persistent

ache, which forced upon his attention the pains in his muscles and

bones. It was their way of complaining against the abuse he had heaped

upon them during the past twenty-four hours.

He was beginning to feel weak and dispirited. His was a constitution

that arose to emergencies in quick, battling trim; but when the

emergency was past, his vitality seemed to be drained.

He looked down the muddy brown road as he finished the second loquat

(which he had stolen from a roadside farm in passing) and estimated

that Ching-Fu was all of ten miles behind him. Walking through the

pasty blue mud in his bare feet, with the rain streaming through his

hair and down his beard and shoulders, had been tedious, trying.

Several times he had stopped, with his feet sinking in the clay, and

cursed the Yangtze with bitterness.

What had become of Bobbie MacLaurin? Had that noble soul been snatched

down by the River of Golden Sands?

He cursed the river anew, for Bobbie was a man after God's own heart.

Never had there lived such a generous, such a fine and brave comrade.

More than once the mule-kick which lurked behind those big, kind, red

fists had saved Peter from worse than black eyes.

He would never forget that night on the pier at Salina Cruz, when the

greaser had flashed out a knife, bent on carving a hole in Peter's

heart--and Bobbie had come up from behind and knocked the raving

Mexican a dozen feet off the pier into the limpid Pacific!

Those days were ended now. The adventures, the excitement, the

sorrows, and the fiery gladness were all well beyond recall.

Peter leaned back against the thorny trunk of the cembra pine, and

sniffed the odors of drenched earth, listened to the drip and patter of

the cold, gray rain, and gazed pessimistically at the blue crest of

rock which lifted its granite shoulders high into the mist miles away.

He stretched himself, groaned, and staggered on through the mire.

The valley was filled with the blue shades of dusk when he espied some

distance beyond him what was evidently a camp, a caravan at rest. The

setting sun managed at last to burrow its way through a rift of purple

before sinking down behind the granite range, to leave China to the

mercies of its long night.

These departing rays, striking through the purple crevice, and setting

its edges smolderingly aflame with red and gold, became a narrow,

dwindling spotlight, which brought out in black relief the figures of

men and mules, of drooping tents and curling wisps of cookfire smoke.

The sun was swallowed up, and the camp vanished.

Peter plunged on, with one leg dragging more reluctantly than the

other. But he had sensed the odor of cooking food in the quiet air.

A sentry whose head was adorned by a dark-red turban presented the

point of his rifle as Peter approached. He shouted, was joined by

others, both Chinese and Bengalis, and Peter, not adverse even to being

in the hands of enemies as long as food was imminent, was inducted into

the presence of a kingly personage, who sat upon a carved teak stool.

This creature, by all appearances a mandarin, of middle age, was garbed

in a stiff, dark satin gown, heavy with gold and jewels which flashed

brightly in the light of a camp-fire. His severe, dark face was long,

and stamped with intelligence of a high order. He wore a mustache

which drooped down to form a hair wisp on either side of his small,

firm mouth.

As Peter was whisked into his presence he placed his elbow with a slow,

deliberate motion upon his knee, and rested his rounded chin in his

palm, bestowing upon the mud-spattered newcomer a look that searched

into Peter's soul.

A single enormous diamond blazed upon the knuckle of his forefinger.

He put a question in a tongue that Peter did not understand. It was a

deep, resonant voice, with the mellow, rounded tones of certain

temple-bells, such a sound as is diffused long after the harsh stroke

of the wooden boom has subsided. Vibrant with authority, it was such a

voice as men obey, however much they may hate its owner. He repeated

the question in Mandarin, and again Peter indicated that that was not

his speech.

A different voice, yet quite as impelling as the other, caused Peter to

look up sharply. The mandarin smiled wisely, but not unkindly.

"The darkness deceived me," he said in English of a strange cast. "I

mistook you for a beggar. You are far from the river, my friend. The

bones of your steamer lie fathoms deep by now. Why are you so far from

Ching-Fu? You were stunned, perhaps?"

"I am only hungry," said Peter boldly. "My way lies into India. There

I have friends."

The mandarin studied him dubiously, and clapped his hands, the great

diamond cutting an oval of many colors. Coolies were given up by the

night, and ran to obey his guttural, musical commands. They returned

with steaming bowls of rice and meat, and a narrow lacquer table.

"Come and sit beside me. Your feet must be sore--bleeding. You may

call me Chang. So I am known to my British friends on the frontier. I

have been ill, a mountain fever, perhaps. In Ching-Fu. I had expected

medicine on the river steamer."

He snapped his fingers, and whispered to a coolie whose face was gaunt

and stolid in the flickering red glow of the fire.

So while Peter consumed the rice and stew, his bruised feet were bathed

in warm water, rubbed with a soothing ointment, and wrapped in a downy

bandage.

A blue liquor served in cups of shell silver completed the meal. The

aromatic syrup, which exhaled a perfume that was indescribably

oriental, sent an exhilarating fire through his veins. It seemed to

clarify his thoughts and vision, to oil his aching joints, and remove

their pain.

From the corner of his eye he detected the silken folds of the

mandarin's lofty tent, in the murky interior of which a fat, yellow

candle sputtered and dripped. When his eyes came back to the table,

the bowls and cups had been removed, and in their place was a

chess-board inlaid with ivory and pearl.

Inspired by the cordial, and the queerness of this setting, Peter felt

that he was the central figure of a dream. The pungent odor of remote

incense, the distant tinkling of a bell, the stamping and pawing of the

mules and the brooding figure in silk and gold at his side, took him

back across the ages to the days and nights of Scheherezade.

And the mandarin appeared to be hungry for Peter's companionship. Over

the chess-board, between plays, they discoursed lengthily upon the

greatness of the vast empire, once she should awake; upon the menace of

the wily Japanese; upon the lands across the mountains and beyond the

seas, and their peoples, of which Chang had read much but had never

visited.

Wood was heaped upon the fire, which flared up and leaped after the

crowding shadows.

It was the life that Peter dearly loved.

The mandarin's eyes glowed, and rested upon him for longer spaces. His

words and sentences came fewer and more reluctant.

In one of these pauses he seized Peter's hand. And Peter was forthwith

given the meagre details of a story, neither the beginning nor the end

of which he would ever know. It was the cross-section of a tale of

intrigue, of cold-blooded killings that chased the thrills up and down

his spine; a tale of loot, of gems that had vanished, of ingots and

kernels of gold that had leaked from iron-bound chests.

The mandarin uttered his woe in a quivering voice, shifting from a

Bengal patois to Mandarin, and again to reckless English.

Peter was given to understand that in Chang's camp was a traitor, a man

who eluded him, whose identity was shielded, a snake that could not be

stamped out unless the lives of every one of his attendants were taken!

In a composed voice Chang, the mandarin, was saying:

"You have walked far. You are weary. Another couch is in my tent.

You shall sleep there."

The candle was guttering low in its bronze socket when Peter awoke. A

cool breeze stirred the tent flaps. A queer feeling oozed in his veins.

He lay still, breathing regularly, searching the corners with eyes that

were brighter than a rat's. The low sleep-mutterings of the mandarin

continued from the couch across from him.

Slowly the tent flaps were being drawn back. Peter strained his eyes

until they ached. He was impelled to shout, to awaken his companion.

Yet the visitor might be bent on legitimate business. He would wait.

In the final analysis it was Peter's profound acquaintance with the

ways of the East which sealed his lips. In the heart of China one does

not strike at shadows, or shriek at sight of them. Not always.

At his side between the covers lay a strong, naked dagger. Why the

mandarin had provided him with the weapon he did not know.

A gray shadow entered the tent and backed noiselessly against the front

pole. Indeed, not a sound was created by his entrance, not even the

rustling whisper of bare feet on dry grass. It seemed very ominous,

mysterious, and ghostly.

The gray shadow floated into the candle-light, which waved and quivered

a little as the still air was disturbed. Peter was conscious that he

was being acutely examined. Not a muscle of his face twitched. He

continued to breathe regularly, with the heaviness of a man steeped in

sleep. Tentatively he permitted his lids to raise.

The intruder's back was toward him. He was bending with slow stealth

over the mandarin's face. What was the fellow doing?

Peter caught the glint of metal, or glass. At the same time a

powerful, sickening odor spread through the tent.

Peter groped for the naked dagger, bounded up from the couch with a

nervous cry, and burled the steel up to its costly jeweled hilt in the

foremost shoulder.

Without a sound the man in gray turned part way round, and a shudder

ran through him, causing the folds of his garment to flap slightly. He

sank down with a sigh like wind stealing through a cavern, and his

fingers clawed feebly in the leaping shadow.

Peter detected a tiny glass vial spilling out its dark, volatile fluid

upon the dust. He picked it up, but it was snatched from his hand.

The dull pig-eyes of Chang stared very close to his, with the

stupefaction of sleep still extending the irises into round dark pools.

The vial was in his hand, and he was sampling its odor, waving it

slowly back and forth under his wide nostrils. He shouted, and

turbaned men filed into the tent, and carried the gray figure away.

The hand of Chang rested upon Peter's shoulder, and in a voice that

throbbed with the sonorousness of a Buddha temple-gong he said:

"You have rendered me a service for which I can never sufficiently

repay you--for I value my life highly! In the morning your mind will

have forgotten what has taken place. Try to sleep now. You will

obey--promptly!"

The candle sputtered and jumped, as if it were striving mightily to

lengthen its golden life if only for another minute; and went out.

From Chow Yang to Lun-Ling-Ting all the land could not provide costlier

raiment than Peter found at his bedside when the long, high-keyed cries

of the mule men opened his eyes upon another morning.

When camp was broken up, long before the sun became hot, he was given a

small but able mule; and he rode down the valley toward India at

Chang's side. They moved at the head of a long, slow train, for here

bandits were not feared, despite the loneliness of the land through

which they were traveling. Farms became more scattered, more widely

separated by patches of broken, barren rock; and, finally, all traces

of the microscopic cultivation which gave Szechwan Province its lean

fruitfulness were left behind them.

The mandarin rode for many miles in silence, occasionally changing

reins, looking steadily and gloomily ahead of him, with his attention

riveted, it seemed, upon the sharp and ceaseless clatter of his mule's

hoofs and the twisting rock road.

Peter's mind was fixed upon the problem which crept hourly nearer. His

head was cast between his shoulders as if the weight of a sorrowful

world rested upon that narrow, well-proportioned skull, with its

covering of shining light hair.

He loved his task as a man might love a selfish and thoughtless woman,

who demanded and craftily accepted all that he could give, to the last

ounce of his gold and the final drop of his blood. It was a thankless

task, yet it had grace.

It was well past mid-morning before Chang spoke the first word.

"A grateful dream came into my sleep last night. For years I have

fought in the darkness with a man who has the heart of Satan himself.

He has robbed me. Time after time he has sent into my camp his spies.

Some were more adroit than others. But none so adroit as the coolie

from Len Yang."

Peter repressed his surprise, and merely winked his eyes thoughtfully a

number of times. Chang went on:

"In this dream last night a young man was given into my keeping whose

spirit and manliness have not yet been soiled. His gratitude was

immediate. In return for the acts which grew out of that gratitude, I

am prepared to give him anything that is mine, or in my power, whether

he desires wealth, or position, or my friendship."

"The young man," said Peter gravely, "desires neither wealth nor

position. If he has been of service to the man who befriended him,

that is enough."

"Should he desire a favor of any kind----"

"Then help him to reach his enemy, who is your enemy, who is the Gray

Dragon of Len Yang!"

"In jest----"

"In all seriousness!" said Peter.

"It is death to enter Len Yang!"

"My mind is made up, mandarin!"

They had entered a narrow ravine, and on both sides of the slender

trail rose up sharp elbows of hard rock. Peter's head was inclined a

little to the right in an attitude he unconsciously assumed when

listening for important words of man or wireless machine.

"It is the folly of adventurous youth," rang out the melodious and

sincere voice of the mandarin. "It is a quest for a grail which will

end in a pool of your own blood! Come into India with me!"

"But I decided--long ago--mandarin!"

"Your life is your life," said the mandarin sadly. "The City of Stolen

Lives is beyond the mountain. _Ch'ing_!"

CHAPTER XVII

A road as white and straight as a silver bar led directly between the

black, jutting shoulders of the hills to the gates of Len Yang.

Peter, with his heart beating a wild symphony of anticipation and fear,

drew rein.

The small mule panted from the long desperate climb, his plump sides

filling and caving as he drank in the sharp evening air.

Close behind the city's faded green walls towered the mountain ranges

of Tibet, cold, gloomy, and vague in the purple mystery of their

uncertain distances. They were like chained giants, brooding over the

wrongs committed in the City of Stolen Lives, sullen in their mighty

helplessness.

In the rays of the swollen sun the close-packed hovels enclosed within

the moss-covered walls seemed to rest upon a blurring background of

vermilion earth.

As Peter clicked his tongue and urged the tired little animal down the

slope, he recalled the fragment of the description that had been given

him of this place. Hideous people, with staring eyes, dripping the

blood-red slime of the cinnabar-mines--leprosy, filth, vermin--

His palace! It stood out above the carmine ruck like a cube of purest

ivory in a bleeding wound. Its marble outrivaled the whiteness of the

Taj Mahal. It was a thing of snow-white beauty, like a dove poising

for flight above a gory battlefield. And it was crowned by a dome of

lapis lazuli, bluer than the South Pacific under a melting sun! But

its base, Peter knew, was stained red, a blood-red which had seeped up

and up from the carmine clay.

The gate to the city was down, and by the grace of his blue-satin robe

Peter was permitted to enter.

And instantly he was obsessed with the flaming color of that man's

unappeased passion. Red--red! The hovels were spattered with the red

clay. The man, the skinny, wretched creature who begged for a moment

of his gracious mercy at the gate, dripped in ruby filth. The mule

sank and wallowed in vermilion mire.

Scrawny, undernourished children, naked, or in rags that afforded

little more protection than nakedness, thrust their starved,

red-smeared faces up at him, and gibed and howled.

And above all this arose the white majesty of his palace--the throne of

the Gray Dragon!

Peter urged the mule up the scarlet alley to a clearing in which he

found coolies by the thousands, trudging moodily from a central orifice

that continued to disgorge more and more of them. The dreadful,

reeking creatures blinked and gaped as if stupefied by the rosy light

of the dying day.

Some carried lanterns of modern pattern; others bore picks and shovels

and iron buckets, and they seemed to pass on interminably, to be

engulfed in the lanes which ran in all directions from the clearing.

It was as though the earth were vomiting up the vilest of its

creatures. And in the same light it was consuming others of equal

vileness. Down into the red maws of the shaft an endless chain of men

and women and children were descending.

Quite suddenly the light gave way, and Peter was aware that the night

of the mountains was creeping out over the city, blotting out its

disfigurements, replacing the hideous redness with a velvety black.

At the shaft's entrance a sharp spot of dazzling light sprang into

being. It was an electric arc light! Somehow this apparition struck

through the horror that saturated him, and he sighed as if his mind had

relinquished a clinging nightmare.

Professionally now he gave this section of Len Yang another scrutiny.

Thick cables sagged between stumpy poles like clusters of black snakes,

all converging at the mine's entrance. His acute ears were registering

a dull hum, indicating the imminence of high-geared machinery or of

dynamos.

At the further side of the red shaft, now crusted with the night's

shades, and garishly illuminated by the diamond whiteness of the frosty

arc, he made out a deep, wide ditch, where flowed slowly a ruddy

current, supplied from a short fat pipe.

Peter believed that electric pumps sucked out the red seepage waters

from the mine and lifted them to the bloody ditch.

On impulse he lifted his eyes to the darkening heavens, and he knew now

that the threads of this, his greatest adventure, were being drawn to a

meeting point; for he detected in the sun's last refracted rays the

bronze glint of aerial wires! What lay at the base of the antenna he

could guess accurately. He hastened to the base of the nearest aerial

mast--a pole reaching like a dark needle into the sky--and found there

a low, dark building of varnished pine with a small door of eroded,

green brass.

The rain-washed pine, the complete absence of windows, and the

austerity of the massive brass door contributed to a personality of

dignified and pessimistic aloofness. The building occupied a place to

itself, as if its reserve were not to be tampered with, as if its dark

and sullen mystery were not meant for the prying eyes of passing

strangers.

Peter knocked brazenly upon the door, and it clanked shallowly, giving

forth no inward echo. He waited expectantly.

It yawned open to the accompaniment of grumbled curses in a distinctly

tenor whine.

A man with a white, shocked face stared at him from the threshold. The

countenance was long, tapering, and it ended nowhere. Dull, mocking

eyes with a burned-out look in them stared unblinkingly into Peter's

face.

Peter could have shouted in recognition of the weak face, but he

compressed his lips and bowed respectfully instead.

"What the hell do you want?" growled the man on the threshold.

"May Buddha bring the thousandth blessing to the soul of your virtuous

mother," said Peter in solemn, benedictive tones. "It is my pleasure

to desire entrance."

"Speak English, eh?" shrilled the man. "Dammit! Then come in!" And

to this invitation he added blasphemy in Peter's own tongue that made

his heart turn sour. It was the useless, raving blasphemy of a

weakling. It was the man as Peter had known him of old. But a little

worse. He still wore what remained of his Marconi uniform, tattered,

grease-stained coat and trousers, with the ragged white and blue

emblems of the steamship line by which he had been employed before he

had disappeared. His bony hands trembled incessantly, and his face had

the chalky pastiness native to the opium eater.

Peter, reflecting upon the honor which that uniform had always meant

for him, felt like knocking this chattering, wild-eyed creature down

and trampling upon him. But he bowed respectfully. The door clanged

behind him, and his eye absorbed in an instant the details of the

ponderously high-powered electrical apparatus.

"Speak God's language, eh?" whined the man. "Sit down and don't stare

so. Sit down. Sit down."

"A mandarin never seats himself, O high one, until thrice invited."

"Thrice, four, five times, I tell you to sit down!" he babbled. "Men,

even rat-eaters like you, who speak my language, are too rare to let go

by. Mandarin?"

He stepped back and eyed his guest with stupid humor.

"I say, men who speak my language are rare. Nights I listen to fools

on this machine, and tell them what I please. What is the news from

outside? What is the news from home?"

"From where?"

"From America!" He stumbled over the words, and took in his breath

with a long, trembling hiss between his yellow teeth.

"It is many years since I visited that strange land, O great one! It

is many, many years, indeed, since I studied for the craft which you

now perform so honorably."

"You--what was that?"

"I, too, studied to your honorable craft, my son. But it was denied

me. Buddha decreed that I should preach his doctrines. It is my life

to bring a little hope, a little gladness into the hearts----"

"You stand there and tell me that you know the code?" cried the

white-faced man shrilly.

"Such was my good fortune," Peter replied gravely.

"Well, I believe you're a dam' liar, you Chink!" scoffed the other, who

was swinging in nervousness or irritation from side to side.

Peter shrugged his shoulders, and permitted his gaze to fondle the

monstrous transmission coil.

"I'll show you!" railed the man. "I'll give you a free chance, I will!

Now, listen to me. Tell me what I say." He pursed his lips and

whistled a series of staccato dots and dashes.

"What you have said," replied Peter in a deep voice, "is true, O high

one!"

"What did I say?"

"You said: 'China, it is the hell-hole of the world!' Do I speak the

truth?"

Peter thought that this crazy man--whose name had formerly been

Harrison--was preparing to leap at him. But Harrison only sprang to

his side and seized his hands in a clammy, excited grip. Tears of an

exultant origin glittered in the man's eyes, now luminous.

"You stay with me, do you hear?" he babbled. "You stay here. I'll

make it worth your while! I'll see you have money. I'll see----"

"But I have no need of money, O high one!" interrupted Peter in a

somewhat resentful tone, striving to mask his eagerness.

"You stay!" cried Harrison.

"Lotus eater!" Peter said, knowing his ground perfectly.

"What if I am?" demanded Harrison defiantly. "So are you! So are we

all! So is everybody who lives in this rotten country!"

"To the sick, all are sick," Peter quoted sorrowfully.

"Rot! As long as I must have opium, there's nothing more to be said.

Now, I pry my eyes open with matches to stay awake. With you here----"

His thin voice trailed off. He had confessed what Peter already knew.

It was the blurted confession, and the blurted plea, of a mind that was

half consumed by drugs. A diseased mind which spoke the naked truth,

which caught at no deception, which was tormented by its own gnawings

and cravings to such an extent that it had lost the function of

suspecting. Suspicion of a low, distorted sort might come later; but

at its present ebb this mind was far too greedy to gain its own small

ends to grope beyond.

The lids of Harrison's smoldering eyes drew down, and they were blue, a

sickly, pallid blue. With their descent his face became a death-mask.

But Peter knew from many an observation that such signs were deceptive;

knew that opium was a powerful and sustaining drug; knew that Harrison,

while weak and stupid and raving, was very much alive!

"There is little work to be done," went on the thin voice. "Only at

night. Say you will stay with me!" he pleaded.

Peter permitted himself to frown, as if he had reached a negative

decision. Harrison, torn by desire, flung himself down on his ragged

knees, and sobbed on Peter's hand. Peter pushed him away loathfully.

"What is my task?"

Harrison sank back on his heels, oblivious of the wet streak which ran

down from his eyes on either side of his thin, sharp nose, and delved

nervously into his pocket. He withdrew a lump of black gum, about the

size of a black walnut, broke off a fragment with his finger-nails, and

masticated it slowly. He smirked sagely.

"He won't care. Why should he care?"

"Who, my son?"

"That man--that man who owns Len Yang, and me, and these rat-eaters.

All _he_ wants is results."

"Ah, yes. He owns other mines?"

"What does _he_ care about the mines? Of course he directs the other

mines by wireless. He owns a sixth of the world. _He_ does. He is

rich. Rich! You and I are poor fools. He gives me opium"--Harrison

glared and gulped--"and he does not ask questions."

"Wise men learn without asking questions, my son," said Peter gravely.

"Certainly they do! He knows everything, and he never asks a question.

Not a one! He answers them, _he_ does!"

"You have asked him questions?"

"I? Humph! What an innocent fool you are, in spite of that gold on

your collar! Have I seen him to ask questions?"

"That is what I meant."

"Not I. He is no fool. You may be the Gray Dragon for all of me. No

one in Len Yang sees him. No one dares! It is death to see that man!

Didn't I try? But only once!"

"You did try?"

"That was enough. I got as far as the first step of the ivory palace.

Some one clubbed me! I was sick. I thought I was going to die! There

is a scar on my neck. It never seems to heal!"

The senile whine trailed off into a thin, abusive whimper. His bony

jaws moved slowly and meditatively. He went on:

"He is crazy, too. Women! Beautiful women for the mines!

Men--men--men everywhere know the price he will pay. In pure silver!"

"He pays well, my son?"

"A thousand taels, if he is satisfied. That is where this hole got its

name. You know the name--the City of Stolen Lives? It should be the

City of Lost Hope. For none ever leave. The mines swallow them up.

What becomes of them?"

"Ah! What does become of the stolen lives?"

The sunken eyes stared playfully at him. "What is a thousand taels to

him? He is rich, I tell you! They say his cellar is filled with

gold--pure gold; that his rooms and halls run and drip with gold, just

as his rat-eaters run and drip with the cinnabar poison. And the

wireless--he has stations, and this is the best. Mine is the best. I

see to that, let me tell you!"

"To be sure!"

"These hunters, these men who know his price for beautiful women--he

will have none other--and who are paid a thousand taels----"

"Where did you say these stations are?"

"In all parts. There is a station in Afghanistan, between Kabul and

Jalalabad, and one in Bengal, in the Khasi Hills, and another in

northern Szechwan Province, and one in Siam, on the Bang Pakong

River----"

"A station on the Bang Pakong?"

"Yes, I tell you. All over. These hunters find a woman, a lovely

girl; and they must describe their prize in a few words. He is sly!

The fewer the better. If the words appeal to him, he has me tell them

to come. Lucky devils! A thousand taels to the lucky devils! Some

day I myself may become a hunter."

"It is tempting," agreed Peter. "But why does he want beautiful young

girls for his mine, my son?"

Harrison ignored the question.

"To-night I will listen. You can watch me. Then you can see how

simple it is. It is time."

Peter was aware that the door had opened and closed behind his back,

and now he heard the faint scraping of a sandaled foot, heavy with the

red slime. A Chinese, in the severe black of an attendant, stood

looking down at him distrustfully. His eyebrows were shaved, and a

mustache drooped down to his sharp, flat chin like sea-weed.

He asked Harrison a sharp question in a dialect that smacked of the

guttural Tibetan.

"He wants to know where you came from," translated Harrison irritably.

"From Wenchow. A mandarin. He should know."

The man in severe black bowed respectfully, and Peter looked at him

frigidly.

Harrison slipped the Murdock receivers over his ears, and his voice

went on in a weak, garrulous and meaningless whimper.

"Static--static--static. It is horrible to-night. I cannot hear these

fellows. Ah! Afghanistan has nothing, nor Bengal. Hey, you fool, I

cannot hear this fellow in Szechwan. He has a message. Yes, you, I

cannot hear him. Not a word! He is faint, like a bad whisper. They

will beat me again if I cannot hear!"

He tried again, forcing the rubber knobs against his ears until they

seemed to sink into his head.

"Have you good hearing?"

"I will try," said Peter.

"Then sit here. You must hear him, or we will both be beaten. This

fellow goes straight to _him_."

Peter slipped into the vacated chair and strapped down the receivers.

A long, faint whisper, as indistinguishable as the lisp of leaves on a

distant hill, trickled into his ears. Ordinarily he would have given

up such a station in disgust, and waited for the air to clear. Now he

wanted to establish his ability, to demonstrate the acuteness of

hearing for which he was famous.

Behind him the black-garbed attendant muttered, and Peter scowled at

him to be silent.

With deftness that might have surprised that wretch, Harrison, had his

wits been more alert, he raised and closed switches for transmission,

and rapped out in a quick, professional "O.K."

He cocked his head to one side, as he always did when listening to

far-away signals, and a pad and pencil were slid under his hand.

The world and its noises and the tense, eager figures behind him,

retreated and became nothing. In all eternity there was but one

thing--the message from the whispering Szechwan station.

His pencil trailed lightly, without a sound, across the smooth paper.

A message for L. Y. An American girl. Brown hair. Eyes with the

moon's mystery. Lips like a new-born rose. Enchantingly young.

The blood boiled into Peter's brain, and the pencil slipped from

fingers that were like ice. There was only one girl in the world who

answered to that description. Eileen Lorimer! She had been captured

again, and brought back to China!

He grabbed for the paper. It was gone. Gone, too, was the

black-garbed attendant, hastening to his master.

Harrison was pawing his shoulder with a skinny, white hand, and making

noises in his throat.

"You lucky fool! He'll give you _cumshaw_. God, you have sharp ears!

Only one man I ever knew had such sharp ears. He always gives

_cumshaw_. _Na-mien-pu-liao-pa_! You must divide with me. That is

only fair. But--what difference? Here you can enter, but you can

never leave. You have no use for silver. I have."

The face of Eileen Lorimer swam out of Peter's crazed mind. Miss Vost,

that lovely innocent-eyed creature, fitted the same description!

Peter stared stupidly at the massive transmission key, and disdained a

reply. Miss Vost--and the red mines! He shuddered.

Harrison was whining again at his ear. "He says yes. Yes! Tell that

fellow yes, and be quick. The Gray Dragon will give him an extra

thousand taels for haste. Oh, the lucky fool! Two thousand taels!

Tell him, or shall I?"

How could Peter say no? The ghastly white face was staring at him

suspiciously now.

While he hesitated Harrison pushed him aside, and his fingers flew up

and down on the black rubber knob. "Yes--yes--yes. Send her in a

hurry. A thousand taels bonus. The lucky devil!"

Out of Peter's anguish came but one solution, and that vague and

indecisive. He must wait and watch for Miss Vost, and take what

drastic measures he could devise to recapture her when the time came.

The pallid lips trembled again at his ear. "Here! You must divide

with me. A bag of silver. _Yin_! A bag of it! Listen to the chink

of it!"

Peter seized the yellow pouch and thrust it under his silken blouse.

He was beginning to realize that he had been exceptionally lucky in

catching the signals of the Szechwan station. He was vastly more

important now than this wretch who plucked at his arm.

"Give me my half!" whined Harrison.

Peter doubled his fist.

"Give me my half!" Harrison clung to his arm and shook him irritably.

Peter hit him squarely in the mouth.

CHAPTER XVIII

As night melted into day and day was swallowed up by night, the problem

which confronted Peter took on more serious and baffling proportions.

His hope of entering the ivory palace was dismissed. It was imperative

for him to give up the idea of entering, of piercing the lines of armed

guards and reaching the room where the master of the City of Stolen

Lives held forth until some later time.

That had been his earlier ambition, but the necessity of discarding the

original plan became hourly more important with the drawing near of the

girl captive.

If he could deliver Miss Vost from this dreadful city, that would be

more than an ample reward for his long, adventurous quest.

He could not sleep. Perched on an ancient leather stool upon the roof

of the wireless building, he kept a nightly and a daily watch with his

eyes fixed upon the drawbridge. A week went by. Food was carried up

to him, and he scarcely touched it. The rims of his eyes became

scarlet from sleeplessness, and he muttered constantly, like a man on

the verge of insanity, as his eyes wandered back and forth over the red

filth, from the shadowy bridge to the shining white of the palace.

Drearily, like souls lost and wandering in a half world, the prisoners

of Len Yang trudged to the scarlet maws of the mine and were engulfed

for long, pitiless hours, and were disgorged, staggering and blinking,

in Tibet's angry evening sun.

The woeful sight would madden any man. And yet each day new souls were

born to the grim red light of Len Yang's day, and clinging remorsefully

to the hell which was their lot, other bleeding souls departed, and

their shrunken bodies fed to the scarlet trough, where they were washed

into oblivion in some sightless cavern below.

It was a bitterly cold night, with the wind blowing hard from the ice

and snow on the Tibetan peaks, when Peter's long vigilance was

rewarded. A booming at the gate, followed by querulous shouts, aroused

him from his lethargy. He looked out over the crenelated wall, but the

cold moonlight revealed a vacant street.

The booming and shouting persisted, and Peter was sure that Miss Vost

had come, for in cities of China only an extraordinary event causes

drawbridges to be lowered.

He slipped down the creaking ladder into the wireless-room. Harrison

was in a torpor, muttering inanely and pleadingly as his long, white

fingers opened and closed, perhaps upon imagined gold.

Peter opened the heavy brass door, and let himself into the deserted

street. The jeweled sandals with which Chang had provided him sank

deep into the red mire, and remained there.

He sped on, until he reached the black shadow of the great green wall.

Suddenly the bridge gave way with many creakings and groanings and

Peter saw the moonlight upon the silvery white road beyond.

A group of figures, mounted on mules, with many pack-mules in

attendance, made a grotesque blot of shadow. Then a shrill scream.

Hoofs trampled hollowly upon the loose, rattling boards, and the

cavalcade marched in.

A slim figure in a long, gray cloak rode on the foremost mule. Peter,

aided by the black shadow, crept to her side.

"Miss Vost! Miss Vost!" he called softly. "It is Peter, Peter Moore!"

He heard her gasp in surprise, and her moan went into his heart like a

ragged knife.

Peter tried to keep abreast, but the red clay dragged him back. Behind

him some one shouted. They would emerge into the sharp moonlight in

another second.

"Help me! Oh, help me!" she sobbed. "He's following! He is too late!"

She was carried out into the moonlight. At the same time, countless

figures seemed to rise from the ground--from nowhere--and in every

direction Peter was blocked. The stench of Len Yang's miserable

inhabitants crept from these figures upon the chill night air.

Naked, unclean shoulders brushed him; moist, slimy hands pressed him

back. But he was not harmed; he was simply pushed backward and

backward until his bare foot encountered the first board of the bridge

which was still lowered.

Behind him an order was hissed. He placed his back to the surging

shadows. Coils of heavy rope were unfolding. The drawbridge was being

raised.

Down the white road, veering drunkenly from one side to the other, came

a leaping black dot.

The drawbridge creaked, the ropes became taut, and the far end lifted

an inch at a time.

Peter shouted, but no one heeded him. His breath pumped in and out of

his lungs in short, anguished gulps. He leaped out upon the bridge,

and shouted again. The creaking ceased; the span became stationary.

The drunken dot leaped into the form of a giant upon a galloping mule

which swept upon them in a confusion of dust. Hoofs pounded on the

bridge; the giant on the mule drew rein, and to Peter it was given to

look upon the face of the man he thought dead. The raging eyes of

Bobbie MacLaurin swept from his face to his muddy feet.

"Moore! Where have they taken her?" ripped out the giant on the mule.

"Dismount and follow me. To the white palace! Are you armed?"

"And ready to shoot every dam' yellow snake in all of China!"

He jumped heavily to the boards, and Peter caught the gleam of

steel-tipped bullets in the narrow strap which was slung from shoulder

to waist.

The foreman of the rope-pullers dared to raise his head, and Bobbie

kicked him with his heavy-shod foot in the stomach, and the coolie

bounded up and backward, and lay draped limply over the side.

As they ran under the broad, dark arch into the street, he gave Peter

in one hand the thick butt of an army automatic, and in the other a

half-dozen loaded clips.

And they began blazing their way to the palace steps. Weird figures

sprang up from the muck, and were shot back to earth.

They reached the hill top, and the green moon of Tibet scored the roof

of the white palace.

A handful of guards, with rifles and swords, rushed down the broad, low

flight.

The two men flung themselves upon the clay, while high-powered bullets

plunked on either side of them or soughed overhead. The two automatics

blazed in shattering chorus. The guards parted, backed up, some ran

away, others fell, and Peter felt the sudden burn of screaming lead

across his shoulder. He slipped another clip of cartridges into the

steel butt; they leaped up and raced to the white steps. A rifle

spurted and roared in the black shadow. Bobbie groaned, staggered, and

climbed on. Now they were guided by a woman's sharp cries issuing from

an areaway. And they stopped in amazement before a majestic

white-marble portal.

With two coolies struggling to pinion her arms, the girl was kicking,

scratching, biting with the fire of a wildcat, dragging them toward the

broad, white veranda.

Bobbie shot the foremost of them through the brain, and the other,

gibbering terribly, vanished into the shadow.

Peter caught Miss Vost by one hand and raced down the steps. Bobbie,

holding his head in a grotesque gesture, ran and staggered behind them.

Bobbie waved his free arm savagely. "Don't wait for me! Get her out

of this place! Don't take your eyes from her till you reach Wenchow!"

He wheeled and shot three times at a figure which had stolen up behind

him. The figure spun about and seemed to melt into a hole in the earth.

Peter wrapped his arm about Bobbie's waist and dragged him down the

hill. Miss Vost, as he realized after that demonstration in the

areaway, could handle herself.

The bridge was up. Lights glowed from hovel ways like evil red eyes.

Peter released the rope and the bridge sprang down to the road with a

boom that shook the solid walls. Bobbie's mule nosed toward them, and

Peter all but shot the friendly little animal!

Between Peter and Miss Vost, who was chattering and weeping as if her

heart was breaking, their wounded companion was lifted into the saddle.

They crossed the bridge, and the bridge was whipped up behind them.

Not until they attained the brow of the hill did they look back upon

the gloomy walls, now black and peaceful under the high clear moon.

And it was not until then that Peter marveled upon their easy escape,

upon the snatching up of the bridge as they left. Why had no shots

been fired at them as they climbed the silver road?

They trusted to no providence other than flight. All night long they

hastened toward the highway which led to Ching-Fu--and India. And they

had no breath to spare for mere words. At any moment the long arm of

the Gray Dragon might reach out and pluck them back.

Only once they paused, while Peter ripped out the satin lining of his

robe and bound up the wound in Bobbie's dazed head.

Miss Vost sat down upon a moss-covered rock and wept. She made no

effort to help him, but stared and wiped her eyes with her hands.

A misty, rosy dawn found them above the valley in which ran the

connecting road between Ching-Fu and the Irriwaddi.

Miss Vost was the first to see the camp-fires of a caravan. She

laughed, then cried, and she tottered toward Peter, who stood there, a

lean weird figure in his tattered blue robe and his tangled beard.

She extended her arms slightly as she approached, and her gray eyes

were luminous with a soft and gentle fire.

Bobbie staggered away from the mule's heaving sides, with one hand

fumbling weakly at the satin bandage, and in his eyes, too, was the

look that rarely comes into the eyes of men.

In a single glance Peter could see to the very depths of that man's

unselfish soul. It was like glancing into the light of a golden autumn

morning.

Miss Vost lifted both of Peter's hands, and one was still blue from the

back-fire of the automatic. She lifted them to her lips and kissed

them solemnly. With a little fluttering sigh she looked up at Bobbie,

standing beside her and towering above her like a strong hill.

They looked long at one another, and Peter felt for a moment curiously

negligible. He had cause to feel that his presence was absolutely

unessential when, with a happy, soft little laugh, Miss Vost sprang up

and was crushed in the cradle of Bobbie's great arms.

Peter looked down into the green valley with tears standing in his

grave, blue eyes. The caravan was slowly winding out upon the trail.

In five weeks it would leave Kalikan, the last soil of China, on the

frontier of India.

Peter felt exceedingly happy as he hastened down the hillside to catch

the caravan.

PART II

THE BITTER FOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I

She bends over her work once more:

"I will weave a fragment of verse among the flowers of his robe,

and perhaps its words will tell him to return."

--LI-TAI-PE.

The newly arrived wireless operator of the Java, China, and Japan

liner, _Persian Gulf_, deposited his elbows upon the promenade

deck-rail, and cast a side-long glance at the Chinese coolie who had

taken up a similar position about a bumboat's length aft. And the

coolie returned his deliberate stare with a look of dreamy interest,

then quickly shifted his glance to the city which smoldered and

vibrated across Batavia's glinting, steel-blue harbor.

Without turning his head the wireless man continued to watch sharply

the casual movements of this Chinese, quite as he had been observing

him since they had left Tandjong Priok in the company's launch and come

out to the _Persian Gulf_ together.

He had suspected the fellow from the very first, and he was prepared,

on the defensive; yet he was willing and eager to take the offensive

should this son of the yellow empire so much as show the haft of his

kris, or whisper a word of counsel in his ear. The latter he feared

quite as much as the former, for it would mean many things.

As the fellow sidled a little closer, Peter was aware that the man was

making queer signals with his slanting eyes for the purpose of

attracting his attention, without arousing the curiosity or interest of

any persons who might be observing the two.

Whereupon Peter turned on his left heel, walked to the other's side and

gave him a stare of deliberate hostility.

The coolie moved backward a few inches by flexing his body; his feet

remained as they were. And as Peter ran his eye from the black crown

hat to the faded blue jacket, the black-sateen pants, which were

clipped about the ankles, giving them a mild pantaloon effect, and to

the black slippers with their thick buck-soles, the coolie smiled.

It was a smile of arrogance, of self-satisfaction. Indeed, it was the

smile of a hunter who has winged his prey, and smiles an instant to

watch it squirm before administering the death-shot.

"You wanchee my?" inquired Peter succinctly.

"You allatime go Hong Kong way?" replied the coolie, his smile becoming

a little more civil, while he measured Peter's length, breadth, and

seemed to estimate his brawn.

It was a foolish question, for the _Persian Gulf_, as everybody in

Batavia knew quite well, made a no-stop run from the Javanese port to

Hong Kong. Peter indicated this fact impatiently.

"No go Hong Kong way?" persisted the coolie, not relaxing that devilish

grin. "_Maskee_ Hong Kong. _Nidzen yang giang_?"

The wheezy old whistle of the _Persian Gulf_ told the world in

unmistakable accents that sailing time was nigh. The _Persian Gulf_

was not a new boat or a fast boat, and she sailed in the intermediate

service south of Java. Yet she was stout, and typhoons meant very

little to her as yet.

"Why not?" demanded Peter in the tones of an interlocutor.

The coolie simply lifted the flap of his blue tunic, and Peter was

given the singular glimpse of a bone-hafted knife, the blade of which

he could guess lay flat against the man's paunch.

Still the Chinese smiled, without avarice. Plainly he was stating the

case as it was known to him, reciting a lesson, as it were, which had

been taught him by one skilled in the ways of killing and of espionage.

The facts of this case were that Peter Moore should immediately

postpone or give up entirely his trip to Hong Kong for reasons best

known to the powers arrayed against him. And strangely enough, Hong

Kong was one of the two cities in China where Peter had pressing

business.

It made him furious, this knowledge that the man of Len Yang had picked

up the trail again.

So Peter glanced up and down the deck to see if there would be any

witness to his act, and there was only one, a passenger. The Chinese

was still smiling, but by degrees that smile was becoming more evil and

sour. He was perplexed at the wireless operator's furtive examination

of the promenade deck. Yet he was not kept in the dark regarding

Peter's intentions much longer than it would have taken him to utter

the Chinese equivalent of Jack Robinson.

With an energetic swoop, Peter seized him by the nearest arm and leg,

and in the next breath the coolie was shooting through an awful void,

tumbling head over heels like a bag of loose rice, straight for the

oily bosom of Batavia's harbor!

So much for Peter's slight knowledge of jiu-jitsu.

He was angrily at a loss to account for the appearance of this trailer,

for he had been watchful every moment since escaping from the green

walls of that blood-tinted city, and he was positive that he had shaken

off pursuit. Yet somewhere along that trail, which ran from Len Yang

to Bhamo, from Rangoon to Penang, and around the horn of Malacca, his

escape had been betrayed.

The spies of Len Yang's master must have possessed divining rods which

plumbed the very secrets of Peter's soul.

In Batavia Peter attended to a task long deferred. He despatched a

cablegram to Eileen Lorimer in Pasadena, California, advising her that

he was still on top, very much alive, and would some day, he hoped, pay

her a visit.

He wondered what that gray-eyed little creature would say, what she

would do, upon receipt of the message from far-away Java. It had been

many long months since their parting on the rain-soaked bund at

Shanghai. That scene was quite clear in his mind when he turned from

the Batavia cable office to negotiate his plan with the wireless man of

the _Persian Gulf_.

Peter found the man willing, if not positively eager, to negotiate--a

circumstance that Peter forecasted in his mind as soon as his eyes had

dwelt a fleeting moment upon the pudgy white face with its greedy,

small, black eyes. The man was quite willing to lose himself in the

hills behind Batavia until the _Persian Gulf_ was hull down on the

deep-blue horizon, upon a consideration of gold.

Peter could have paid his passage to Hong-Kong, and achieved his ends

quite as handily as in his present role of wireless operator. But his

fingers had begun to itch again for the heavy brass transmission-key,

and his ears were yearning for the drone of radio voices across the

ethereal void.

It was on sailing morning that he was given definite evidence in the

person of the Chinese coolie that his zigzagged trail had been picked

up again by those alert spies of Len Yang's monarch.

He steamed out to the high black side of the steamer in the company's

passenger-launch, gazing back at the drowsy city, quite sure that the

pursuit was off, when he felt the glinting black eyes of the coolie

boring into him from the tiny cabin doorway.

His suspicions kindled slowly, and he admitted them reluctantly. It

was the privilege of any Chinese coolie to stare at him, quite as it

was the privilege of a cat to stare at a king. But the seed of

mistrust was sown, and it was sown in fertile soil.

Peter ignored the stare, however, until the launch puffed up alongside

the sea-ladder, then he gave the coolie a glance pregnant with

hostility and understanding.

Taking the swaying steps three at a time, Peter hastened to his

stateroom, emerging about five minutes later in a white uniform, the

uniform of the J. C. & J. service, with a little gold at the collar,

bands of gold about the cuffs, and gold emblems of shooting sparks,

indicative of his caste, upon either arm.

He looked for the coolie and found him on the starboard side of the

promenade deck. The subsequent events have already been partly

narrated.